Free Will in Florida
       

You've been brought here to visit and
this is how it ends: you wake before
the house, before the birds, and go out
into your great-grandfather's yard for
oranges. In the tall grass near the shed
your breathing brings the chickens out.
They shadow you, expecting feed. You
find an orange, but it's old, sticky on
one side. You slip your thumb beneath
the peel and pull: ants pour across your
fingers. This is not what you want. You
hear a rustle in the trees and look up at
the branch, but you're too late, it's gone,
the bird, the green chameleon. Instead
you see oranges, yellow oranges,
and you think, This is what I want. You
put your foot against the trunk and
start to climb, but the bark surprises
you, draws blood. You try again, hug
the tree more gently, give weight to
your hands, but thorns are everywhere,
you can't avoid them, and halfway up
your palms begin to bleed. The branches
cluster tighter as you climb, barbs snag
your arms and chest, a small spike
stabs your head, your knee, but you
don't stop, you're determined, and you
move out on a limb, still climbing toward
a good one, toward one just ready to drop.

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Copyright © 2019 Clint McCown All rights reserved
from The Dictionary of Unspellable Noises
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission