Summer Communion
–for my father, 1932-2013
My father loved tomatoes that he called
old-timey. He meant not sweet but tart fruits
that reminded him of childhood. In old
envelopes, he saved heirloom seeds. Planted,
they refused to germinate—or rooted,
leaves withered in blight, or birds pecked
the flesh, or fruit fell to rot at blossom end.
When his own diseased cells blasted blood
and marrow, his breath shallowed. He could not
swallow. His lungs were a flood. We had thought
the end would be his heart. That last August,
his breath was so short, he could not eat.
He never came home. There’s an acid bite
of summer sorrow in all that is ripe.
August
I was born in a month of heat & drought
when the light through the trees flickers
like phosphorescence in the ocean, here
then gone as shorter days subside in tides
of mosquitoes whirring, no venerable
emperors but bats dipping into the sky
and everything sponsoring the question
did I just see that? I pay attention to wings
in keeping with the word akin to augur,
wonder what’s consecrated now, what
I might divine, what sign is favorable
for gathering, harvest, boon, foretelling
with promise like the Old Latin suggests,
augos to increase or avis for bird, auspicious
flights & trails & entrails, whatever can be
studied in this the eight month, Gregorian-
wise, while the goldenrod waves its yellow
feathery goodbyes on the roadsides, fruits
in the garden are ripe to bursting, falling
apart on the vines, tomatoes splitting down
their sides while from their bird-pecked
skins whole kingdoms of ants spill out
in paths I examine, guessing only that
what they mean is panic. They do not seem
august or ordained, but surely their frantic
exodus implies something about divination,
elusive signs, omens, what can and cannot
be prognosticated by seeds or ceremonies.
Elinor Ann Walker’s recent work is featured or forthcoming in Northwest Review,
Pidgeonholes, Whale Road Review, Gone Lawn, and The Southern Review. A Best
Microfiction and Best of the Net nominee, she lives with her husband and two dogs,
is the mother of two young adult sons, and prefers to write outside. Find her online
at elinorannwalker.com and on Twitter @elinorann_poet.
