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
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
A blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc!
All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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