Did my father,
when he had lymphoma
in the last year of his life,
travel down and up that roadside ditch,
a clog of long grass and thistle,
to join my mother and me
as we picked Juneberries,
his drop-foot an obstacle
but not the end?
It could be lies:
my father strode to a small,
low patch of berries,
his uneven gait iambic,
at worst a near-stumbling syncopation.
He bent toward a bush,
the purple fruit
sweet and almond-flavored,
each separate
on a setting of green.
There he picked and ate.
My father really ate
like there was no tomorrow.
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Nancy Devine teaches high school English in Grand Forks, North Dakota where she lives. She co-directs the Red River Valley Writing Project, a local site of the National Writing Project. Her poetry, short fiction and essays have appeared in online and print journals.
