Stacie McCall Whitaker - Stone Coast, Maine

Old Barn Road

Written By: Andrés Amitai Wilson

She lived on Old Barn Road
in the cotton-candy farmhouse
where unicorns would graze.
She lived in the gossamer
where Paul Revere rode—black
shutters not yet chipping, chicken
coops quiet as dreamed winter

She’d knit, yoke rainbows
with yarn, watch the still
handsome men on game shows,
ensconced within eight-millimeter eyelashes.

She’d tap the Lincoln’s steering wheel to Woody Herman,
to Duke, to Benny, to the five-part harmony of Jesus horns.

I often visit memories in which I am blooming and scared
of beasties. I often smell the woodstove music of the hearth
while she inoculates dragons. She forages, finds raspberries,
furry and overflowing like moksha cornucopias,
gigantic grapes, and strawberries—that presage my future wife.

I learn about etiquette, the merits of “thank you,” how smiling is the face of God. In exchange, I
recount the girls whose hair summered, or I trip over fingers full of wooden chords, and she waves
nods like a wand—my fairy godmother on Old Barn Road.

She lived on Old Barn Road,
a thorn bush away from Route 3,
in that rickety barn as overgrown
and antiquated
as alchemy.

About the Author

Andres Amitai Wilson / Stonecoast Review / Issue 7 / Summer 2017 / Poetry / Old Barn Road

Andrés Amitai Wilson was named after the Spanish guru of classical guitar, Andrés Segovia. Coincidentally, the younger Andrés also trained as a guitarist at Berklee College of Music, but he is currently a Ph.D. Candidate in Comparative Literature at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, where he teaches. His poetry, prose, and criticism have appeared widely in print and on the web. As a sideman and recording artist, Andrés has played music throughout the contiguous United States, in Europe, and in Israel. When not reading, writing, or playing music, chances are quite good that you can find him going on adventures with his elfin children, Eden and Liam, cycling up some mountain, or breathing deeply atop a yoga mat.