Seersucker

I

In vertical pastel hues,

striped with white,

each button-front shirt

hangs in its state

of perpetual dishevelment.

My closet is lined with them,

like articles of pale candy,

like the promise of a trip

to a hot and humid clime

that errant time

has borne me to.

II

Is my fair frame thus clothed,

in these fantasies,

as I swagger in the Deep South-

where everything is white and green,

swampy,

slick with a slime

of charm, history, and guilt?

Could I see the Mississippi sunset

that Faulkner saw

as he traded barbs about lexicon

with Papa Hemingway?

III

Or am I in India,

the birthplace of said fabric

to combat the womb

of all the world’s sweltering air?

Would I be chewing naan,

standing easily on an old balcony,

thinking of Buddha

and all the hungry ghosts

as I stare towards the tall north-

emerald foothills

with ghostly heights beyond them?

IV

Or do I wear them

back to my roots-

to Rappahannock

and the slumbering Blue Ridge,

where I can attempt to discern

who I am-

and why?

Should I be kneeling

before an old wooden fence

that’s completely shrouded

in blossoming honeysuckle vine-

worshiping at the altar

of nostalgia

and trying to find the genesis

of how each of my words

came to pass?

V

These promises we make-

what weight they carry.

And how unassumingly they hang,

waiting for us to reach out

and finally don them.

 

7 comments

  1. Aila Stephens · February 23, 2016

    Loved it! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Chrissy · March 6, 2016

    one word: brilliant

    Like

  3. writings · April 15, 2016

    Great work! And nice feeling – soft, thoughtful, vivid 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • Nick Trandahl · April 15, 2016

      Thank you very much! I appreciate it!

      Liked by 1 person

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