The Ford Country Squire
At ten, when the Rector’s
family asked me to their cottage,
I was thrilled. I sat
with the suntanned children
in the backseat and ate
from their bag of chips.
The windows were sealed
in the air-conditioned station wagon,
and some fresh air
would have been good —
how fast the trees pass, how strangely
the earth spins—
and I a fugitive
from my own godless family,
trying to join
this church, this life—
But the leaves on the trees
curled and I followed,
doubled over, my mouth
hopeless and open
and there, on the new-
smelling floor mat,
I rejected the transplant.
I left my mark.
-JANE HILBERRY
"The Ford Country Squire" appeared originally in the online journal Ohio Edit
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.