Whose Mouth Do I Speak With
By Suzanne Rancourt
I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.
He worked in the woods and filled his pockets
with golden chunks of pitch.
For his children
he provided this special sacrament
and we'd gather at this feet, around his legs,
bumping his lunchbox, and his empty thermos rattled inside.
Our skin would stick to Daddy's gluey clothing
and we'd smell like Mumma's Pine Sol.
We had no money for store bought gum
but that's all right.
The spruce gum
was so close to chewing amber
as though in our mouths we held the eyes of Coyote
and how many other children had fathers
that placed on their innocent, anxious tongue
the blood of tree?
Another rushed post because I was out celebrating with fangirls -- first at the Piratz Tavern in Silver Spring, which was ridiculously fun and even had live music by costumed pirates before we left -- "we" being myself, dementordelta, rhaegal, rubyrosered, sor_bet and perkypaduan, then at con.txt's Disco Duck, where I did not dance but chatted with lots of people, ate excellent British chocolate, and played with rubber fishies.
The rest of my day was less exciting -- writing a review of Star Trek: The Next Generation's "Rightful Heir", waiting for the roof inspector (who can't tell us anything conclusive till he runs it by our insurance), and packing for North Carolina. I have photos from the Piratz Tavern but really have to go to bed so I can get up and get on the road, so they must wait till tomorrow! Meanwhile, a study in contrasts -- photos of Adam at Bull Run taken a decade apart:
...while here he is on a cannon in 2010.