Saul Bennett
The Bleeding
In the schoolyard victory garden we planted
Saturdays, moving me along Mother's
best friend's daughters, one already 10.
What made it up, radishes, peas maybe, behind the schoolyard
left field fence in home run territory.
The older daughter brought lemonade
she refused me as I had not, she scolded, planted
hard enough. But the Saturday after what the radio
called D-Day she shouted the others, a dozen or so,
all older than I, to attention announcing I could drink up.
About an inch I let trickle into the sticky little tin cup,
as Father on D-Day I had watched for the first time
pour whiskey, about an inch, bleeding out the brown,
so slowly, into the glass thimble he always filled
with water when something caught in his eye.