the feeling of flesh

 

 

 

I can feel my liver beneath my skin.

No way, my sister says, it's the ant sorrows

you took to obvivion. I carry this season of

death with me always in the form of blue

Raid murder.

The hootch, formicidae, seeress,

seeing me but me not them

until their sudden runs for freedom

are cornered by the foot.

They wish to bring me harm, you know,

by walking among my grapes

or appearing black agains my

white tee.

 

You too.

Who spend early mornings and late nights

contemplating poems,

and me

with the stem-rust of an old plant

standing guard on the couch

waiting for the soul to drib

 

It's diabolical, this feeling of flesh,

the devil-mans argument.

Take no quarry with buckshot 00 aught

least you bite into the lead with sweet shoulder.

 

The squirrel knows no death.He cautions

friend and family not to wait up or remember

but to go on with life among the leaves.

To bury the brown nuts but carry the

immature, tender ones in the stretched

cheeks of the young.

 

The stent for the vessel, the stela

that keeps the blocked passageways open.

I hate stew from relatives;

you never know the meat they use

or the iron pots they cook in.

Reviews

[SHEEMA HUQ]

enjoyed and stuggled with some of the meanings...but loved opions intwined with insights and experiences

[Emily B]

i am sometimes surprised at your content . . . you write about things country folks know, the seasons of life and death, the gray squirrel, the furrowed field, are you sure you don't live somewhere down the road tending chickens and picking blackberries in season? I will walk the fields til I find you out.

[Jackson Lai]

Good poem......