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 |
Writing, writingA 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! Archives
October 2017
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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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