the road behind the hill

the road behind the hill

At 8:13, the solitary oak

outside the kitchen window pulls down the sun

with groping, fibrous fingers. Shadows stroke

the stucco wall in stenciled lines, and on

the counter, store-bought casserole is cold.

His mother snores. He creaks the screened-in door

to slide his bare feet over the concrete stoop

in callous whispers. Outside, the evening air

is soft as puppy’s breath. The grass is wet.

   

   His mother’s face was wet the day his dad

   had went away, wet Carolina sunset

   streaks of red on cheeks that he had kissed.

   John had moved in that year, a cheshire smile

   from cheek to cheek that said “just call me dad,”

   but whiskey fists can’t hide behind a smile.

     

Cicada song blankets his lilting stride

across the lawn, his shuffle leaving strokes

of green on cloth of dew. They sing him on

his way out to the road to stand on top

the yellow lines that split the street that splits the town

in two. The paint is cool as kitchen tiles.

  That day, his father hooked the tin-roof trailer

  behind the red-roof truck, the earthy smell

  of split-hoofed cattle mingling with the odor

  of burnt tobacco leaf and hay. They’d stood

  out by the barn together and watched the geese

  fly past the house in waving ribboned strands,

  to disappear behind the beechwood trees

 that lined the field. His father's algae eyes

 spoke longing in the silence. By evening he was gone.

The citrus moon drips down a lemon rind

of evening light that sprinkles him alone,

staring down the road that drops away

behind the distant hill. Tonight, he swears

he too will one day walk the yellow lines

that sink beyond his sight. He'll disappear

 to find the land of weary fathers, geese,

 and all who feel the world is not a place

                                                       for staying.



- published in After the Pause