Saturday, June 12, 2010

Words Mean More at Night

I've decided to start writing in the evenings.

Back-yard Grace
I became nothing
the back-yard sought to offer me grace.

An old woman with thin skin
and white fingers
wrapped her warm wind around light
reached down
and struck out my eyes.

She fed me
sugar red strawberries
and cold goat cheese
with thick, nutty lettuce.
Four days were pushed out of the earth
one after the other.
The sweaty skinned world
became sharp, full, loud enough for me
to sink back into the soil, unnoticed,
to sit quietly there
and die:

The ants in the kitchen march around the candle. The old man next door sells his boat. A blind woman in a wheelchair sings that she can see. A homeless man dances to "My Girl." Someone's cold beer drips with condensation. The blooms unfurl like fire and fruits squeeze thick and sweet onto cutting boards. Green avocados spit out slimy pits into copper bowls. Cracked eggshells rock on the counter, and two dogs dig in the dirt as the chickens stand by and watch, unsure.

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