This Morning

In winter
the river
sometimes overflows
and at Herndon and Millbrook
to the far northwest
the trees are swallowed by
the river,
a big gaping mouth
that chews off the leaves,
spits out the branches
and all that’s left
are spindly things
that stick out in the air
like great wooden fingers.

In winter
you can take
a little rowboat
into the river
and fish around the trees.
Now there’s scaffolding
that comes out of the hills
but it’s nothing like
the trees in
the river.

Soon the scaffolding will swallow
up every blade of grass,
the same way the houses
swallowed up the old fig trees,
those useless fig trees that
made the town famous,
the delicious green fruits
that squirrels would steal
and devour in seconds
outside my window,
scurrying up and down
the knotted trunks.

You could see the big black crows
swoop down and spear
the figs with their beaks,
and laugh when they couldn’t
open them up again,
and fathers would say to their sons
don’t go into the figs,
a rattlesnake will bite you,
but I would go
anyway and never even saw
a garden snake.

How about the vines?
the ones that reached
out to tug at your clothes,
the ones with the wood that
splintered in your skin
like flakes of shaved ice
that your father would dig out
of your hands with his knife?

How about the vines,
the rows of vines that
swelled with fruit in the summer?
The little purple grapes that old
Mr. Kazarian would
pay you to pick and
lay down on wax paper,
the little purple grapes
that baked in the sun and
shriveled and died and old
Mr. Kazarian would
have to sell for
less than he paid to
grow them.

Remember old Mr. Kazarian?
He was the craggy Armenian.
He was the strong Armenian.
He was a man of principle who sold
off his land for three million dollars
and a shack in Carmel worth almost
that much.

Remember old Mr. Kazarian?
He died in eighth grade
with cancer in his liver,
the cancer that grew
and feasted on life,
the cancer that swelled ‘til
his stomach distended,
the cancer
that grabbed him
and dragged him
to the floor.
He looked up
at you from the
stark white linoleum
and said to you softly,
never forget the
Armenian Genocide.
You told him you wouldn’t
and set him in his chair.
Three days later his son moved in
and you never saw old
Mr. Kazarian
again.

How was it last
and how is it now,
the trees and the grapes
and the vines? Oh I couldn’t
tell you, I couldn’t
explain, these are just my
thoughts from this morning.

Oh I wish I could take
the little boat out
and tell old
Mr. Kazarian
I still remember,
or run through the figs
with reckless abandon,
or maybe just maybe
keep close to my heart
the thoughts in my head
from this
morning.