How Thirsty
The earth is yours and everything in it.
Anonymous
How thirsty I grew from being satisfied.
The same sugar that rose
from the earth rose also in me.
I planted myself on a bank.
Masqueraded as a willow.
Wept with joy above the river.
Wept with sorrow above the river.
This was the still ritual for feet-
to know the earth like a root.
To imagine my body as a tree.
My tears were clear, both sweet and bitter.
One leaf cried out to another,
“Empty me today of all my color.
Fill me tomorrow with a shot of sugar.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The Cows and Corn
I keep planting the corn year after year,
thinking I can harvest it before the cows smell
its sweetness and break through the fence
and feast on the ears and trample the stalks
and take what they want, then amble back
to the wide green field that is theirs.
Why do I think the cows will stay
in their field? That the fence will hold,
no matter how strong? That I’m in paradise?
◆ ◆ ◆
Storm Cloud
I watched a dark cloud forming above
the ridge as I folded the laundry
beneath the line on which they had dried
in the August heat, confessing to myself
out loud that I know far less than the ants
crawling on the ground around my feet.
For how long have I made the mistake
of thinking I know more than they do?
That I’m invisible to the dead instead
of so obvious to them as I stand as one
of them also in waiting, dancing as I do
on this turning page below, adjusting
my glasses, folding a towel,