“Firsts,” “Lasts,” and “Returning in November”

by Peggy Hammond

“Firsts”

I know I rode my tricycle,

we named her Ginger,

off the front porch.

I have the scar.

When training wheels

were removed,

I don’t remember the day;

I remember the wobble.

I know the morning the call

came, the news of cancer.

The world wobbled.

I have the scar.

“Lasts”

That full moon hung heavy

and low, a white fruit

ripe for picking.

I bundled you into

the car, drove you

for a clear view.

In that moonglow, our hearts

may or may not have beat

in time with one another.

That moment may or may not

have been the last time

such a moon reflected

in your eyes.

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“Returning in November”

back to the homeplace,

the deep woods of my youngest years,

beyond the old graveyard,

its primitive stones rising like buoys

from a leaf-litter sea.

The creek cuts its own path,

and we follow, you,

seeing everything for the first time

as I breathe memories

sweet as honeysuckle.

My sister and I in the

trailer behind my father

steering the tractor down rutted path.

Trees destined for stovewood.

Chainsaw whine. Childish songs:

someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah

someone’s in the kitchen I know.

Here, the stream swims around

the body of a deer, bloated,

mostly submerged. You take my hand,

pull me closer, whisper,

don’t look, don’t look,

as if protecting me,

as if I’ve never seen death before.

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