Laurel Benjamin
All these years later,
when I climb
the mountain I see
two figures wrestling
body suits of wild flowers—
poppy lupine adder's tongue.
Cruelness
working to disassemble
a family. Veins burst so my father's brow becomes
vines and my mother's ampleness
smudges green stems.
They fall onto wild
cabbage, fall into spaces meant for tenderness.
Today, I don't fall,
boots breaking mica-shiny soil
worms making room for putrid daisies,
bendable,
woven into a child's chain.
Today, I soil my hands picking slim solomon,
miniatures that should be stars.
I remember finger painting. It's the hands,
the teacher said—
an oily watery slickness formed a map
in our creases.
Some kids stuck a finger in the mouth.
Now I wonder to erase themselves?
Like my mother, whose body swelled and diminished
by the season, arms unable to hug
until the first
weekend I returned from college. She blew
on the recorder, Handel's half-
notes, woody tones circling as if
she could escape me.
I haven't hiked with my brother since teenage years
can only imagine running to catch up. Last year
I almost
lost him. He explained
his car
went through
an intersection.
On purpose.
Now, I've followed
the trail above the oaks, through low-
lying manzanita, with hazy views of the Pacific,
and if I squint,
the Farallon Islands.
If I'm honest, I'll admit
the mountain has inched higher, lace flowers
taller, and daisies
I've woven through my hair
wriggle like snakes.
I cut father's hiking stick with my old Girl Scout
knife, his initials SRB—
he's not here but his warning,
Stay with the group—
never heeded—how can I forgot we found
a few paces up
the little backpack dust-ridden
of my brother.
And the ripple
across mother's dark eyes,
None of us
have wings attached to our shoulders.
the mountain I see
two figures wrestling
body suits of wild flowers—
poppy lupine adder's tongue.
Cruelness
working to disassemble
a family. Veins burst so my father's brow becomes
vines and my mother's ampleness
smudges green stems.
They fall onto wild
cabbage, fall into spaces meant for tenderness.
Today, I don't fall,
boots breaking mica-shiny soil
worms making room for putrid daisies,
bendable,
woven into a child's chain.
Today, I soil my hands picking slim solomon,
miniatures that should be stars.
I remember finger painting. It's the hands,
the teacher said—
an oily watery slickness formed a map
in our creases.
Some kids stuck a finger in the mouth.
Now I wonder to erase themselves?
Like my mother, whose body swelled and diminished
by the season, arms unable to hug
until the first
weekend I returned from college. She blew
on the recorder, Handel's half-
notes, woody tones circling as if
she could escape me.
I haven't hiked with my brother since teenage years
can only imagine running to catch up. Last year
I almost
lost him. He explained
his car
went through
an intersection.
On purpose.
Now, I've followed
the trail above the oaks, through low-
lying manzanita, with hazy views of the Pacific,
and if I squint,
the Farallon Islands.
If I'm honest, I'll admit
the mountain has inched higher, lace flowers
taller, and daisies
I've woven through my hair
wriggle like snakes.
I cut father's hiking stick with my old Girl Scout
knife, his initials SRB—
he's not here but his warning,
Stay with the group—
never heeded—how can I forgot we found
a few paces up
the little backpack dust-ridden
of my brother.
And the ripple
across mother's dark eyes,
None of us
have wings attached to our shoulders.
