Lori Wilson
Nothing settles, grows hot in the rotting,
steaming, fetid or fertile. So little gets in.
Even the hills' four shades of misted blue
lie trapped in the distance, unable to land.
I've wiped these plates a thousand times,
green-checked towel circles again and again.
I fear barren corners, fear empty bowls,
crumpled pages, cold grip on the tongue.
(I told a man under the bridge I have ideas
I can't express. He said You don't have them.)
Wind hurries the clouds, takes this kitchen
in and out of shade and heat by rapid turns,
pushes the curtain away from the window,
sucks it back. Two black flies' shadow,
wings blurred on the screen. Outside,
no leaf wilts. No ground hardens or cracks.
Tomatoes already weigh down their vines.
Blackberries bend canes back to earth.
Day lilies croon to me Come. But the serpent
hangs from the cherry tree and does not sleep.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Lori Wilson