Whose Mouth Do I Speak With
I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum. He worked in the woods and filled his pockets with golden chunks of pitch. For his children he provided this special sacrament and we'd gather at this feet, around his legs, bumping his lunchbox, and his empty thermos rattled inside. Our skin would stick to Daddy's gluey clothing and we'd smell like Mumma's Pine Sol. We had no money for store bought gum but that's all right. The spruce gum was so close to chewing amber as though in our mouths we held the eyes of Coyote and how many other children had fathers that placed on their innocent, anxious tongue the blood of tree?