vendredi 24 janvier 2014
The Ceramic Apple
From deep inside the ceramic apple
on top of the family fridge, I noodle out
a photo, hidden for years. The Fourth of July
parade, Maryville, Tennessee, the eastern tip
of the state, visiting relatives. I was a punky kid
with long bangs, and sulked on the curb,
skinny legs wide-flung in shorts,
watching bands march by. I refused to smile.
Both of my hairless balls were hanging out
in the snapshot, and were visible from across the street.
Why did my mom keep this embarrassment,
tucked under tacks and spare birthday candles?
Whole color guards must have passed, distracted
by my sagging family jewels. I was reunited
at last with distant cousins. Like Dicky Bird Nester.
He was cool. He had a speedboat
and was my new hero. I told Dicky Bird
about junior high band, and how I played trombone,
the cruelest instrument for a pubescent
boy to play. The slide was always
barreling out, jutting, knotted, protruding. I still know
one song, the bass part
to that damn Coke commercial,
“I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing,”
when everyone held candles, singing,
beaming for the camera.
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