The '83 Ford and a Gallon of Spit

 
 The ’83 Ford and a Gallon of Spit

Say it: azalea.
A zayul-yah. Azalea.
Buzz buzz, the petals peal forth,
a rustling kind of affection.
 
And I remember we had much bigger plans than blue,
that day in Pop-Pop’s garden when the squash plants
reached to my waist, growing green from the driver’s
seat and spilling out of the trunk, with marigolds bright
 
and tomatoes that grew in the glove box, still green. The
rusted frame held old headlights tenderly,
like watermelon seeds round and slimy between lips
before they rocket out, intergalactic mission is go
 
We should have known.
We might have speculated, at least
ventured a hypothetical prediction
for the predilection of daisies
 
and how we’d all be wrinkled, dry
and thin like the flower stars around our hips
or worse, even, how we
wouldn’t
 
But we were just struck, and dumb
and dumbstruck, and muddy in the mire muck
where we waded, knee-high in rubber galoshes
that made a wobbling sound against the toads
 
So we simply mushed on, and thought nothing of it. 



​December 2010, copyright Sarah Hirsch