Curt Rode
I was six when we saw
Men in shirtsleeves swarming
To detain someone who'd melted
His car into a tree.

If my father sped up
To save me the sight of

The driver's eyes blanching,
Head bobbing like a rocket
The launch pad refused to release,

Or if he slowed down
Should the men lose their hold
And spill into the street,

I don't remember.

If he said anything—
Supper soon, or
I'm sorry you had to see this

He did so only by driving.

Earlier that day
He showed me a rock the shape
And texture of cantaloupe.

With the strike of a hammer,
He handed me two halves,
Sparkling, scooped empty of jewels.

Return to Fall 2008 Table of Contents