Cherry Blossoms in an Orchard

Someone remembers smoke
rising from holes
drilled in teeth, the search
for dull metal
in the back of the mouth,
the glint of an earring lost
in the elbow of a drain.

Someone remembers a bicycle
crushed by a car, an antelope
crushed by a car, and a chicken’s egg
tossed in a picnic game
landing safely in a plastic cup.

Someone remembers
cherry blossoms in an orchard.
Scandalous white blossoms,
his favourite little what’s-her-names.

He remembers them, not
because of their scent,
or because August
fattened their green, gushing
ovaries into hard, sour fruit,
but because a dry summer
brought mice, and the mice
invited owls.

And there was gluttony
among the mice, and joy
among the owls, such that
at picking time, the trees
were bare, and the soles
of his boots snapped on grass
packed with tiny grey bones.

And what’s her name, that flower,
was shaking in the doorway,
blaming him. And he hasn’t been
home in twelve years.

—PAUL VERMEERSCH

(Originally published summer, 2004.)