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Thirst By Anna Baldwin April 10, 2008 When I was child in the plains of North Dakota I spent weird summer nights with sunsets at midnight Hidden in shadowy raspberry bushes. Fumbling slow fingers pulling downy ripe fruit From the stem into my stained mouth. Backyard dandelions and grass Watched over by seven solitary birch trees Meant to protect us from the desiccant wind My mother grew up where the winters are rainy. The summer air is heavy and yellow like miso soup. Raw garbage tumbles into the streets and Its smell follows millions of dark-haired people Through the busy neon-blinking city that Barely notices the persimmon sun Roll into the ocean. Six years of Northern wind Drew the native moisture from my mother's hands. Six years of holy Psalms and Sunday potlucks Thinned her lips and hollowed her cheeks—except Those days when she'd bring home a mango And tell my sister and I how big and juicy They used to be. Its flesh split among us three We were all plump and happy. About the author: I grew up in the Midwest, and, now that I am east of the Mississippi, find myself missing it more and more... | | | |
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