POETRY

By Andrew Payton

Beyond the sanc­tu­ary and teach­ers’ barrio
where your broth­ers are build­ing roads,

I picked guayabas with our children
who had never tasted that fruit.

We knew the tree, its loca­tion in pines—
burnt irri­ga­tion hose, chipped porcelain—

and we asked them to spare it in their cutting.
I lowered branch­es, filled pockets

and dirty hands, as a small way of saying:
yes I know this world and where it blooms.

They ate and ate strug­gling with stone-
like seeds, spit­ting yellow flesh into the dust.

Some­times walking in a park or forest
they look to me expect­ing a treat, a sweet

sur­prise I don’t know how to find.
Soon they will learn the limits of what I provide.

Once flag­stones and conduit are laid,
men will come to build houses.

I suppose we might live in them.

Photo by Jethro Carullo

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.