Rocking back, forth, and again
the metal hinges squeak and softy squeal
on the faded hammock,
bought the day I was born.
My hands and fingertips
show a lickable purplish stain
from picking plump, black raspberries
from behind the shed.
My mouth purses as I eat them
from my seat
in my father’s arms.

Sharp rocks in heavy silhouettes
cut the cold water
of the neighbor’s pond
with a ripple and a splash.
My brother heaves them in,
buries them deep in the muck.
They never appear again.
I wonder:
how many rocks would he
have to throw to fill up
the whole pond?

Butter from the sweet, crisp corn
drips onto my fingertips.
A frantic call.
Dad’s hurt.
Ankle shattered.
A bumpy car ride
and a long sleepless night.
Pins and needles
set the splintered bone.

Even when the past
flings itself in your face,
still you hold onto it
like a fierce bird in flight.
And, even with memories clear
as cut glass and within reach—
there is no way for him
to dull the ache of
missing the future.