Those Who Speak to Trees Remember
Trees have ancestors, a lineage, a history. Father tells Brother and I
as he waters his hybrids.
Mother coos to citrus leaves and
reminds us of the canyon and desert
in us, the Indian and Mexican
of us, how we are grafted like our citrus trees
that drop grapefruits to roof, then tumble to ground,
their skin splits—and jeweled flesh glistens gold beneath
white membrane, tiny sour tears. Brother was once
afraid of those sounds, the way the yellow spheres
rolled from roof to ground. Splats of grapefruits made him
fear sleep in his own room. We used to climb past
the tangelo tree, past bright pebbled skin to reach
garage roof where we played war with neighborhood kids,
throwing dropped fruit at each other. In the lazy heat of summer,
we soured with sweat and dirt, licked trails of ripe juice from our hands.
Brother’s friends remember him and our trees, the sweetness of our lemons.
Now when his friends visit, even a year after his death,
they sit in the backyard of our parent’s house, drink beer, talk
to the orange trees and listen to falling globes of citrus. I listen to the rustle
of leaves, the way fruit sings of Brother, an echo in the wind.
This selection comes from the book, Brother Bullet, available from University of Arizona Press. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Sarah Clark .
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