I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.

    He worked in the woods and filled his pockets

    with golden chunks¹ 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 thermos² 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？