I push my dad past trimmed plots
of Bermuda lawns orderly with hedges,
hawthorn bushes bordering
garage after garage unopened,
doll houses displayed,
but untouched. His wheelchair
rattles over loose asphalt,
our neighborhood still
without sidewalks. The old
kumquat tree unplucked,
heavy with the orange jewels
my sister and I would gather
in our shirts and feast on like queens.
The cul-de-sac, where my dad
taught me to ride my bike,
his strong hands on its base,
the gentle nudge, the letting go,
metal wheels softly clinking,
glint of a pink reflector.
January Pearson lives in Southern California with her husband and two daughters. She teaches in the English department at Purdue Global University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Rust + Moth, Atlanta Review, Rayleigh Review, Borderlands, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Cape Rock Review, and other places.