Albert Garcia
Raspberries
He plops them in the green mesh basket,
knowing they are through
feeding each other, knowing he can pull
until the vine rips but only ripe
berries will give with a gentle tug
releasing themselves to the faint
pressure of his skin.
Picking in morning-cool sun,
he thinks of placing them
on her tongue,
between her lips of nearly the same
color. So delicate the movement,
from afar one might assume
he is soothing some small wound.
Creeks
Walk in and feel the stones,
round and slimed with moss,
in the arches of your feet. Feel the warm
water of the shallows, tadpoles darting off
fingerling bluegill
easing into shadows. You’re six. Your mother
brought you to this summer creek
to swim, to learn the pleasure
of getting cool in the sultry heat
of this valley. How could you see
across the levee, on the other side
of the world, men slogged up another creek
in a place called the Mekong Delta,
packs slung over their backs, rifles
raised above their helmets? How could you know
why they were there
or if they knew? You’d learn later
many never made it
and many returned haunted
by the water. Here you were, a kid
whose skinny legs poked down
like an egret’s, caught up in a world of water striders,
those creatures that stay afloat
by surface tension,
and the pollywogs using their wide tails
and undeveloped legs
to push their fleshy bodies to safety.
Jeff Knorr
At the Schoolyard
The sun is on my back as it burns down in the sky.
The day is closing out like drawn curtains.
I’m wishing you were here now, with us, the dog and me
tossing the bumper into the green carpet of grass in the schoolyard field.
It’s not like the fields where we chase birds, flushing roosters,
but right now the dog and I want you
right here, your musky smell and smile, the firm
hands that swing the bead always on target
against the rooster veering away toward the slope of the draw.
There’s just too much cement around you now and
not enough tall grass, sunlight, and wind.
But when you’re here with us next, we’ll
chase the roosters like girls, whistle to the dog
to hold and flush, and finish the day in the dusk
on the tailgate, the way we always have;
you giving me lessons on how to shoot
and me burning the sunset and your face into my eyelids
like the glowing end of your cigarette against the dark.
