Black Friday - Sandra Anfang

[Larry Robinson]

Black Friday

While families bleed their wallets 
into big-box stores
my son and I flee to the forest.

We visit our favorite campsite
walk the plank bridge
gambol in the puckers of the tunnel tree.

We imbibe a trunkful of memories 
in the clutch of thousand-year-old redwoods
gulping wisps of minted air.

I show him a photo of himself at three—
white Mowgli poised among the Steller’s Jays—
screaming to the world I am.

We commune with turkeys and white-tailed deer 
visit the damned-up creek—our former swimming hole
closed for the season or lack of interest.

I ask if he’ll pose against the tallest tree 
flower at the ease of his assent.
Pointing the camera toward its black-green limbs

I catch a penumbra of cross-hatched light
beaming bands of magenta-gold
that frame him like a pale Pieta.

Light is anesthetic;
we’re held in its eternal grasp.
At twenty-four he’s lost the concept of shun.

The day marries us to a new genre.

	- Sandra Anfang


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