The Millennium Issue:
Past
Annette Marie Hyder
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Kumquats
Kumquat trees skirted the issue
of the sidewalk;
informed the air slyly,
blending their acidic sweet
connotations
into the exact squalor
and neat incontinence
of the nursing home.
Trodding these
orange pocked little oblongs,
congealed on the cement,
that led to automatic doors
yawning yellow,
I could hardly keep up
with my grandmother
who couldn't walk fast enough
when we came or when we went
as she paced a race beyond my ken
dragging me
and my six year old legs
along.
And that's when I learned
how to eat kumquats.
Pop one in your mouth and bite;
sweet and bitter and oil of orange,
pulp and seed and rind.
We were the only real visitors
I ever saw.
The other guests were there by proxy
of their cards, candy, fruit and dolls
all paltry offerings for former household gods;
gods that lived in a world of yellow
from the old wax glow
of the tiled floor
to their false teeth and parchment nails.
They had no voices
that were not stolen from them
by vacuum walls.
Seamless surfaces of freshly made beds
mocked wrinkled sheets on faces.
I was a wayfarer in that land of the dead
and my grandmother tricked me
into eating its fruit,
accepting the bitterness
of their orange peel rind,
the sweetness of spirit,
seeds of knowledge,
pulp of experience
and juice of need
which was their pomegranate.
I came to love them
skin and all.
~Annette Marie Hyder
Annette is a freelance writer whose credits include regular contributions to an international bridal magazine, short stories, articles, and many poems. Email.
© 2000 by Annette Marie Hyder. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.