In the dead of August,
A few leaves yellow-scuttled yards
Unready for rakes, autumn’s casual brush by—
A 68-degree flirt with sweater weather after a fine rain.
In a deeper South, the Amazon burned;
The slideshow played, a frame or two,
On a small screen, swiped by android thumbs
Tracking the finer points of the Dow
Jagging fire-engine red.
In a pre-charred dawn,
Rainforest palms fanned their last
Against dusky pumpkin skies,
“Smelling of barbecue,”
Phrase-fumbled journalists—
Which kind?
I dumb-wondered,
The whole hog
Pit-roasted over hickory
And thin-drizzled with tangy vinegar?
Or mustard and paprika-heated dry rub
Powdered with garlic, brown sugar, and allspice?
Or smoked chicken sweating peppery vinegar-laced mayonnaise?
Soon yellow-brown will flatten lawns,
I thought,
As bone-white ceramic tile chilled my feet,
And I groped for a supermarket orange
Shrinking in the refrigerator bin.
It felt tired in my hand.
Memory peeled back
To frosty mornings when I rode with my father
To the farmers market in Birmingham’s West End.
Fires burned in rusting drums
And we huddled in the dark,
Waiting for trucks hauling citrus
From distant groves,
Where winter went green year-round.
Blast furnaces cast a tangerine glow
Until dawn streaked,
And the sun flashed on big rigs
Bearing Florida nectar—
Exotics to eat out of hand,
With names to dream on:
Valencia, Indian River, Satsuma, and Seville
Took the choke out of those sulfur days,
The never-letup of iron-smelting.
Ambrosial. I tasted the word this morning—
While the Amazon rainforest died another day.
I think this is one of my favorite poems! Breathtaking, sensual, and choking.
Many thanks, TK. Associative thinking–it sometimes takes me to other places without prediction.
Love especially dusky pumpkin skies. So true yet not an obvious go-to. Nice.
So much to love about this, Catherine. Absolutely one your best, IMHO. Took my breath away…
I love these two poems. The New Orange: “Rainforest palms fanned their last/Against dusky pumpkin skies” is a fine broken line. There is a real conflict or chasm between the cold modernity of the small screen and the palms waving against the deep orange sky, the smell of barbecue.
There is a famous Louis Armstrong performance of “Struttin’ at the Barbecue” that is close in melody to the Brazilian song “Manha de Carneval” by Luis Bonfa. It must be the creole influence, the African, Spanish and French along the Gulf Coast. You surely capture that.
In “Memory Peeled Back” (superb title) the evocation of that cold, early morning in Birmingham with your dad waiting for the tropical fruit in a produce market, with the singe and smell of industry in your nostrils is evocative and intimate. I get such a powerful sense of your father, too, and how you felt about him. This poem is replete with family warmth and childlike excitement. How the senses are embossed in our memories.
Eric, thanks so much for taking time to comment. I appreciate your friendship over the years–and certainly your beautifully written posts on LinkedIn. They are thoughtful and incisive–setting an example of high quality every time. My best to you and yours–ch