Hart

green, unripe peaches bobbing like Adam's apples

above him as he leads us to his front porch, smiling

a crooked, sloping smile that cups over his false teeth,

his skin hanging off of his bones like windless sails and

his eyes still haunted by a blue tease. the underbelly

of the veranda sags like a sigh.

 

we sit on his couch and he talks about irrigation and longforgotten

agricultural techniques. he is a teepee of bones – I can almost

see right through him – paperman – as his arms lie by his side, fingers tamed

and deviating to the side, drowsy with arthitis. in the late sunday

light, his eyeglasses catch and grieve and wink

 

the clock down the hall ticks patiently, arms in rigid salute

to father time, and the hanging flowers

outside the window bow their purple heads,

like children reciting prayers. his wife sits by his side, tiny

whippersnapper, fresh-mouthed despite the frost

gnawing her bones down, scissorgrinding them down

and the tiredness that she wears around her shoulders, black shawl.

they work their jaws together, heads nodding like

docked ships.

 

the sunlight fails over the unborn peaches, stealthy and cat-creeping

as the pumps and pipes in the house knock behind the walls,

like babies kicking in the womb. their hair, white and perfect,

swept clean, his pants pulled up to his bellybutton as they

sinks into the couch before us, becoming nothing more than

figments, watched by their children,

 

who squat in their framed portraits

on the piano.

 

Reviews

[Mark]

Two old people in their twilight years, whose children have preceded them into Eternity, taking solace in their trees, their sewing, their rituals, their memories and each others' company; what is more ennobling than love which has survived all of life's storms, and emerged only the stronger for them?
This is an amazing piece, and if you are in fact a High-school senior, I take my hat off to you. I am acquainted with many poets whose gifts for anthropomorphic metaphor, simile and allegory are nowhere near so highly developed as yours--I will even admit to being among those! Some of the images were so arcane that their meanings eluded me, but this is poetry worthy of studying, and I shall.
This is but the second of your poems I have read, having been referred by a friend, but it shall most assuredly not be the last. Your future is bright, young man!

[black_rose_obsession]

hm...it made me think..I like it.

[Lola Nation]

There is an interesting connotation with bobbing, which you seem to go back to twice in this narrative, while I may find it a bit redundant, I wonder why these visions yo-yo so vibrantly?