Remember how golden
they blazed, growing wildly
on the hill near our house,
the hill between our house
and the freeway. We pulled out
handfuls and carried them
home until Mother sneezed
and said to stop. We'd climb up
to the swamp after a long week
under the eyes of the nuns,
learning the pensmanship and
deportment of school, of life,
as the church bells tolled
through our childhood. Frogs' eggs
floated in a mass, like periods
and commas in the muddy pages
of water. Carried home in a jar,
they never hatched out.
Three years ago I drove back
to the spot where we picked
blackberries, where our dog
was struck by a car one year,
but not killed, where we passed
going home, carrying a chalice
of flowers or eggs, asking myself
how we all grew out of this.
childhoods shape our adult lives. Kara Madden, age 22.
And there were still golden petals
above a dusty green, bent as they
always were, from wind
and from rain.
"Scotchbroom" appears with permission of the author; it was first published in She Walks Into the Sea, copyright 2009 Michigan State University Press.