The Long Porch | Bonnie Haines

We climbed the railings in our dirty white sneakers,
ate warm, sweet mangoes in the musky shade
beneath the deck.
There were boards we knew,
boards that creaked,
those that shifted and sank
slightly at a step.
We had the territory marked out,
defined by our own set of signposts.

The tops of the trees were as familiar
as the trunks,
personally handled by each of us,
hand and foot.
We knew the wind in those trees,
all the sounds of night and day--
the birdsong in dewy morning light,
rustling and cracking of branches
mingling just above our heads
as we clambered over the railing
into the jungle.



Taken from the 1992 issue of The Wire Harp.