Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BILLY, by KAREN SWENSON Poet's Biography First Line: Returning to the beginning Last Line: And descend the hill balanced in their weight. Subject(s): Children; Death; Winter; Childhood; Dead, The | ||||||||
Returning to the beginning that is no longer there, I look up at the gray, stone house on the hill with its petunia-edged terrace and face the open account of memory. My mother says, "The Blisses are pressing apples. They've promised us two gallons." So I climb the hill through the rusting autumn grass where chickens used to rummage red in their feathers among apple trees split open like winter walnuts. And memory returns raw as the pink and shiny skin under a picked scab. We belly-whopped down the hill, the snow spuming into our faces, bouncing off hidden rocks until the sled threw us at the bottom. We lay laughing in winter dust blinking up at the sun and made angels in the snow before, two hands on the rope, we dragged the sled - a mutual tail waggling over rock - back up the hill to come down again and try to override our angels to a new mark. And all the time I dragged the sled with one hand the smell of apples grows stronger until I breach the top of the hill and there is Eddie, the elder brother, astride the press ramming the apples down its maw, while the yellow jackets circle him drunk and lazy with oozing juice and the sun that ripens the falling leaves. The parents, Eddie, and I speak as though there is no voice missing, no silence that has lived twenty years amongst us. Then I walk down again, a gallon of apple juice in each hand, and stop halfway to rest, to look over the trees at the pond where Billy and I took out the rotted raft. It sank beneath our weight as we shouted at each other to jump off and left us floundering in fear of the resident snapping turtle. But he jumped first without a splash one summer when I was away. The letter came to the house where my mother kept her vigil over my dying grandmother. I remember the gingham oilcloth on the table, my mother's voice reading his mother's letter. The gingham marched across the table marking out shining squares of years. I knew as the survivor I had inherited a life. The tablecloth paired empty squares waiting to be filled. I smell my hands, rich from the apple grasp of their fingers as we shook good-bye among the petunias dying against the gray, stone house. There are no rafts on the pond. My mother's grandchild rides this hill in winter. I pick up the gallon jugs and descend the hill balanced in their weight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND |
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