|How could the news come? |
We drove with my second cousins to
The orchards at the feet of the Catskills.
We cut three names into a tree.
And when I burned my wrist in the cannery
So badly it began to bubble,
You were there with a bucket of cold water.
Among the tons of softening apples
You smelled like cinnamon burning. That night
I watched you play the piano with Jamie and Evan
Who were both, at some point, your lovers—
My heart in such a confusion,
Their bows drawing diagrams in the air,
This moment so close to prayer.
|Copyright © 2013 by Joe Hall. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 26, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.|