- Attendant to the Sycamore
It worries that there are so many names for apples.It tortures that the mind is prosthetic, an incurableother, idiopathic. What does it want, waiting all dayfor a future lover to call? Waiting for the doctorto clear his throat? All along, waiting is what it craves.The ice came into the trees too far south, too latein winter. Loblolly pine, the naked willow oak,the wretched sycamores, the power lines. Let’s walkamong them. Their slim bodies in the dormancyof a dream which may simply end in the middle.Let’s put our ears to their trunks, listen totheir syrupy breathing, and feel them sway, thin,drunken sentinels guarding the last song of night.Your mother at the top of the stair, rockingon the groaning floorboards. Such anxietyhoused in the pulp of time, suspended, a supremacyof imminent collapse. A pause. A flourish of pauses. [End Page 600]
Recent or forthcoming poems by Darren Morris can be found at Mud Season Review, Clementine, North American Review, Blackbird, Please Hold Magazine, New Ohio Review, and Rattle. He lives in Richmond, Virginia.