Pickled
by Tracy Hamon
[ poetry - october 05 ]
Canning in
September, annual salvation.
Housing up, taking in, learning again
the words gem and mason, clear glass
as familiar as lovers whose names I slip
into the conversation, ritual directions
my tongue arranges seasonally, like the fall
of man, the crowded container of red,
damnation from the tree. And I am
washing each jar casually looking
out the window, watching the man
across the street shout like an evangelist
at his son learning to drive, learning
movement of a wheel, the grip of a vehicle
and all the while his father is preserving
the intricacies of his condition.
