Ed Harkness writes of “the sting of living” in this fond memory of horseplay with his sons.
—
Mountain Ash Berries
Hard bright clusters hang in the bare tree.
When the boys were boys, we’d cut
quarter inch PVC pipe for blowguns.
It woke you up to catch a berry
in the forehead or neck. But it was war,
and now, robins gather this morning to feed.
How sweet to see myself sprint, crouch,
dodge and aim. Dad, you’re a dead man!
I see us three in the yard, leaves like years
matted on the lawn—a blur the more I stare.
How sweet the snap of a berry bullet
on the cheek—the sting of living,
a kiss you don’t forget. We’d blast
whatever moved, no rules, in late
October light, our jeans grass-grimed,
shirts badged with berry flesh. They moved on,
as kids do. How sweet to be shot,
to die, to come back to life.
***
First published in Beautiful Passing Lives (Pleasure Boat Studio Press, 2010).
Editor’s Note: Ed Harkness has published poetry with us before. Read his sobering “Confession.”
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Photo by Terry White /Flickr