Days of Red and Gold, poetry by David Estringel at
Roman Synkevych

Days of Red and Gold

Days of Red and Gold

written by: David Estringel



Sittin’ at the kitchen table—
cup of black coffee in one hand,
cigarette in the other—
I look past catches of blue paint
and the remains of flies on screen door mesh,
toward the sorghum field
just beyond the ranch gate.
Death’s stillness—a gravity all its own—
has seeped into every corner,
permeated the grout of tiled countertops
and spaces in between fruit magnates
on the old, white Frigidaire
like the smell of rabbit in the oven
or hints of storm riding out on the breeze.
Life’s left the room—
no pulse under these linoleum tiles—it seems,
leaving it darker, a bit colder,
despite morning’s come to call
through the window above the sink.
I take another sip—bitter on the tongue—
then a drag (or two),
finding myself—absent-minded–
fingering the contents of
a chipped, pink and white bowl
of green stamp china (of which she was so proud).
Four pennies, two dimes, and a nickel.
Two rusty paper clips.
A half-used packet of B&C headache powder.
A dead fly.
I remember eating from it—
sweetened raspberries, red and golden,
from bushes in the garden—
when I was small.
How I’d toss them back in grubby fistfuls,
between chokes on the juice, as
honied explosions—sour and sweet—
took me to Heaven and back
then ‘round, again,
while she looked out the screen door,
tossing hair from her eyes—
cup of black coffee in one hand,
cigarette in the other—
staring at my father working in the field,

Missing her,
I think how lovely it was
when all you needed
to attack the day
was a belly full of hunger
and a spoonful of sugar
(or two).

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