Poem from Bermuda Ferris Wheel.
Apple Orchard Road
~After Edward Hirsch
I remember my father sprinkling cinder on black ice,
the deer eating persimmons in the valley,
thousands of stars between the branches of my mother’s fingers.
For years I’ve walked away, the old me
on the railroad tracks, behind bars with buckling walls,
where neon lights illuminate pink clouds of cigarette smoke,
but now I’ve returned to the moon’s cracked beam.
I’ve come to stand before the wooden shacks
along the tin-colored highway, where nothing has changed,
& nothing remains of youth either.
I’ve come to walk barefoot through icy leaves.
I’ve come to listen to the screen door bang,
to feel my mother’s frail hand grip my wrist,
until she slurs her words to match the best of worst memories,
words that burn like sour mash against the throat,
saying, Honey, you’re just like me.
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