In The Lychee Orchard
by Michael Foley
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IN THE LYCHEE ORCHARD for Robert Watkins Michael—can you stand your ground against a boar? I laugh knowing it’s not quite a joke you’ve invited me to gather lychees we’re sitting in your old white truck at the end of your own hidden road talking about the three levels of existence you discovered in a Bolivian museum dark red wine runs through our veins you sweep your arm out in front of you taking the orchard in like a hula dance as if this were the most glorious level the trees you’d planted in this gulch perfectly pruned canopies within reach Ah! I love this mist! This is what happens! Now it’s going to rain! If a gentle rain’s the same as a blessing what’s a hard rain? the ordinary is extraordinary your free arm’s out the window shirtsleeve well-soaked you turn on the headlights and we careen down into the gulch through the downpour fishtailing in wet grass our descent a wild joyride front end bucking lights criss-crossing you laughing full-on why wouldn’t I trust the best doctor I’d ever known? his driving his knowledge of the road unseen and yet I grab the wine bottle by the neck tighten my knees for the sloshing glass in my crotch and open the window on my side so I can breathe once we’re level with the trees I see the light is leaving us just enough to see the lychees through the weeping windshield hundreds of thousands of pinpoints of red fruit we clamber out at the orchard’s edge beneath canopies layered tightly all those trees kneeling to the dusk I stumble in the scent of the rain pushing past long wet cane grass you disappear trailing instructions If they’re red all ‘round they’re good! If they all look good break the whole thing off! five gallon bucket in hand I head for the nearest branch knowing we’re on limited time up to the point it runs out of light heaven can only handle so much color breaking off clusters turns out easier than singling out one illustrious fruit off to one side I hear something I stare into the shadows searching for a shape darker than shadows skin utterly wet eyes wide open I see the silvery leg of a ladder threading itself through a far tree I see your head and shoulders penetrating the topmost canopy pushing through the second level of existence meanwhile down below the lychees you’ve loosened fall and the erratic percussion of the red fruit beats against the roof of the underworld |
