Dateline: Saturday, January 7, 2006
Dad, Peeling Apples
Dad, Peeling Apples The color of wheat
bread speckled
like the skin of a Golden Delicious,
freckles on top of freckles
and tiny nicks
from his knife, dots of blood
turned to brown scabs.
My father’s hands
have never changed. Every night
a different apple
skinned naked,
split and seeded without him
ever looking down, loving the fit
of apple
in the left hand, brown-handled
knife in the right.
He licks the tip of his finger
where the juice runs clear
and skewers a slice
for me, which I take
regardless
of whether I want
an apple or whether
the flesh has begun to brown
around the edges. When he is done,
knife set down and fingers wiped
clean against the legs
of his beige corduroys, I will take
the leathered back
of his hand to my cheek
and hold it there, begging
his weathered roots to spread
their soil-caked fingers
long and strong
as deep as the generations will go.
(By Sarah Cummins Small. Published in The Yalobusha Review. Written for my father. There are few men like him.)
Comments
Monday, January 9, 2006 - oh wow...
Posted by Tia
I LOVE your poetry. Please forgive me if I shamelessly gush! I've never been able to put my dad's hands into words; I hope to try on film one of these days. You did such an excellent job of saying what I would have wanted to about my own dad. Beautiful.
