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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3537 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Unidentified Tree Grows Fruit Treezaa (T. E. Ballard) Dark like blood, sleeping on the last branch I see it by mere chance, glancing up to check the clouds. A parade of chairs come from the kitchen till the fruit and I are level, leveled in the sky with the chair’s tilting leg. I believe it is a plum or an overgrown cherry-- which is harder to believe. Two days later I call it plum or plume, taste it with my tongue the cool skin, there is something erotic about wanting yet leaving it there to grow, to fall to the ground. Three days later I say to my lover, do you remember the cherries in Paris, the rain falling through the windows near the day bed and the ripe, red world? My lover has never been to Paris. Once we took the children to an island off the coast of Lake Superior, when the children believed us friends, who held hands secretly who made love quietly while the birds slept, and the girls grew round, for it had been so long since we had a bite of happiness. The tree is old, nothing is expected, the leaves fall, then return. Somewhere there is a country called Paris where the streets are always wet with rain. |
