One summer when I was three, you heard me laughing
in the backyard, insistent laughter, that of a child who had
discovered some fresh delight. You looked out the window,
saw me under the apple tree in my sun-colored shorts & t-shirt,
the color of the yellowjackets who had come for the sweet
blonde pulp that had fallen to ground, the color of the sharp
saffron bodies I was stomping. You must have felt your heart
seize, but you rushed out &, in a non-stop run, scooped me up
in your arms & into the house.
One sunny, breezy autumn day in my fourth year,
as leaves rushed against our living room window,
I sat on your knee & put your glasses on my too-
small face. You laughed & lit a cigarette, something
you had done hundreds of times in my presence.
Yet the smoke must have struck me differently
because I said, Put that nasty thing out, Daddy.
You did so & never picked up one again.
Now you are 80 & I am 55. We have both survived
this long. Perhaps we have even saved each
other’s lives, you risking your own skin to keep
me from the swarm, & me saving your lungs
& heart from tar & nicotine. We cannot
justify what we have done with the time—
the hateful words parried back & forth
alternating with silence, the rage over
imperfections.
But here we are with pockets full
of sunny days that we might not
have had otherwise, breezes we
might not have felt, ears full
of bumblebees, each season’s
tipping & slipping into the next.
Here we stand, sated with fireflies
nevertheless.
Three of Taunja Thomson’s poems have been nominated for Pushcart Awards. She is co-author of Frame and Mount the Sky (2017) and author of Strum and Lull (2019), which placed in Golden Walkman’s 2017 chapbook competition, and The Profusion (2019). Her first full-length collection, Plunge, was published in May of this year.
留言