“The Umbrella,” oil on canvas, by Marie Bashkirtseff, 1883.
From the porch steps I watch the neighbor girl
skip up to my father,
wrap around his leg like a vine,
shout, Bob, Bob, I can spell cat.
My father scoops her up, tosses her
into the sky, where she is suspended
for high-pitched instants before
he catches her with older arms.
They pick tiny blueberries and he shows her
a mole tunnel. Soft wet dirt collapses
around the roots. He says, Look, Amelie. See.
I recognize his voice from the gritty
sandcastles and looming
waves of Sandy Beach in Hawaii.
Sweet plumeria tucked behind my ear.
Ridged shells and water-worn bits
of cloudy sea-glass in my baby fists.
The neighbor girl puts her arms
up to my father in a young V
like an open four-year-old
prayer.
Look, Amelie—
The pointed finger
directing attention; deep
inside me, my head turns,
my chin lifts: Look.
I recognize his voice
from the alley
garden of southeast Portland,
with its cherry tomatoes and zucchinis
nearly as long as I was tall. Look, Nicole. See?
The neighbor girl laughs,
a verb form of joy, and reaches
up to grasp my father’s fingers
as one might reach to grip a familiar
doorknob, with the expectation
of going somewhere
safe.
Nicole Guenther’s poetry has been published in Naomi Shihab Nye’s anthology Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25, as well as Home Education Magazine, Spring Hill Review, Byline Magazine, Stone Soup Magazine, and elsewhere. She previously served as the Poetry Editor for the UW Literary Arts Journal Bricolage and was the recipient of several University of Washington Creative Writing/English scholarships.
