名人诗歌|Whose Mouth Do I Speak With

I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.

He worked in the woods and filled his pockets

with golden chunks^{1 of pitch.}

For his children

he provided this special sacrament

and we'd gather at this feet， around his legs，

bumping his lunchbox， and his empty thermos^{2 rattled3 inside.}

Our skin would stick to Daddy's gluey clothing

and we'd smell like Mumma's Pine Sol.

We had no money for store bought gum

but that's all right.

The spruce gum

was so close to chewing amber⁴

as though in our mouths we held the eyes of Coyote

and how many other children had fathers

that placed on their innocent， anxious tongue

the blood of tree？