I dredged the river of my childhood,
cajoled every voice, pressed every drop

of juice out of silence. Confidence
was an orchard in the sun, rays

revealing the shiny plumpness of apples.
Ripe. Ready. Like a ritual, every gesture

was its own reward, like the return
of the father in the sunset,

who was walking home
bringing a round loaf of bread

and a bottle of red wine as if nothing
had happened. As if he didn’t know

how long he’d been gone, his eyes
lit up: he liked what he saw.

– Lucia Cherciu