Poetry By Joshua Dean Smith

      Flickr JD Gordon



P  A R  E N T  H O O D  

The silver maple in my backyard is infused
with the rusted chain-link, impossible to tell
where the tree begins and the fence ends.  You
can imagine a skinnier youth, when it
innocently weaved its way through boundaries,
from my yard to the next. But it couldn't go
back  
the way it came, history on my side, present somewhere else, and the
future questionable   
at best. Four inches of scar tissue, bark the color of brain  
soaked in formaldehyde. Every year it grows into death
and more of that fence disappears.  I irrationally love this
tree, and as an ill-equipped savior I dulled my
wire-cutters against its struggle. I don't think I saved it,
but trees don't die quickly, and over time it will swallow
those wires like drowning hands reaching for rescue.  
             
    


MY   T E A C H E R S  

Selling cheddar and caramel popcorn to the
two Mrs. Smiths and Miss Keffer,  the
matron saints of Pleasant Valley Road.
Kisses that left red lips on my forehead.  
 
Mile hikes through pine forests and shin-deep
snow to Kim and Kate, whispering when the
deer stopped to watch us carve sharp hearts into
cherry.   
Kisses that shared honey lip balm.    
 
Motionless hours with Rebekah, quieting
over health and heaven watching rosebuds
resurrect  
the empty park. Kisses that felt brave, but now   
 
are language: greetings and wishes,  congratulations,
happy six year anniversary and thanks for
everything you are.   
 
And, maybe, a daughter on my shoulders
steering me through our yard. New kisses,  
new words: how do I thank her for everything
she will be?

​

Joshua Dean Smith currently works as a data storyteller, where he integrates mathematics, art, and technology to transform data into compelling stories. His work has been featured in the anthology "Ohio's Best Emerging Poets" and the online journal "The Grove". He grew up in the Appalachian region of Ohio, and currently lives in Columbus, Ohio with his wife, Rebekah, his dog, Wild Jane, and his cat, Ernest Hemingway (and he has a little boy on the way). 

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