Voice of the Cane Field

cicadas sing dry mouthed

chafe like dry paper

the way the news unfolds

cane fields harmonize

steel breath of wind

through razor leaves

day & night the wind’s

barbered voice bleeds


A voz do canavial

by João Cabral de Melo Neto

Voz dem daliva da cigarra,
do papel seco que se amassa,

de quando se dobra o jornal,
assim canta o canavial,

ao vento que por suas folhas,
de navalha a navalha, soa,

vento que o dia e a noite toda
o folheia, e nele se esfola.

Time Catches Us Up, Small Lives, Fish

Diamond Head Beach Park, Oahu, day

after day I descend the rough path

to study the tidepools — rocky sandy

shallow bays — what holds air soon enough

holds water, glimmering streaks of fish

then no fish, no beneficiary proves them

no record of life or death, swim or flail

however many fish are left behind, more

follow, gold & silver charms tracking

a Mobius strip — life, death — one fish

Leaving

when children are small — very small — we leave

them in the hands of other people — caretakers

we have chosen to keep them safe while we go

off to work or shop or take a test or a hike

or we merely drive around to be alone, or sit at home

with a book & coffee or a drink, a few hours

without the clinging child — we tell the child what

is about to happen, we construct a world of more

children & smiling caretakers, yet the child

stands big eyes in a wide face screaming

not to be left, clinging until someone tears them

away — Phaedra lay face down on the floor

screaming until an hour later Erika came for her

this trauma of separation, they must be taught

because they can’t count on us, can’t count on

anyone, sooner or later we leave them for good

Dimples & Rust

what if you are the thimble? spend

most of your life in the sewing box

even though Mimsie mends

every day — who mends these days?

every curtain needs mending

she says & can’t find the cord to power

her machine — think of stitching heavy

curtains all by hand, upholstery needle

pricking your thimble-free thumb

the sewing box rattles with promise

remember me? the thimble cries

only a few stitches into the job & I’ll

be shiny as when I was born — stamped

furled, however thimbles are made

I’m a lowly thimble, the smallest size

if lucky, I’ll be borne on Mimsie’s

finger until she dies, mending

the hired man’s overhauls, the master’s

waistcoat, the Sunday dress

the cook wears to visit her mother

miles away in Chipping Sodbury

my dimples welcome your thrusts

bless all thimbles, keep us from rust

The Farmer in the Dell

it happened on Cape Cod back when Route 6

past Orleans was a long straight empty road

it was a hot day, end-of-season yellowed grass

stretching away in all directions, the blacktop

sticky where we stopped on the shoulder

spooked, we walked toward the young woman

standing in the road beside the truck, another car’s

nose buried in the nose of the truck, someone

in the car’s driver seat not moving, two children

still sitting on the truck’s front seat, screaming

we lifted the children out, sat them on our laps

broken glass pimpling their faces, the blood

tiny spots beginning to slide, we told them

they must sit still, not move, we began singing

about the farmer, the wife child nurse cow

we picked glass one splinter after another

their mother standing alone in the road

wringing her hands, no one spoke, we sang

ever so many songs — yankee doodle, row

your boat — from time to time the children smiled

I Loved You Best

I loved you best — we tried & failed — what if

today you would take my call, once more say yes 

walk away from your wife & well-earned rest

to take up again with me — I yearn in this quiet

nest without you, I pretend we could live it over

a parallel life, not be pulled apart by location

by ambition, our callow youth not ready to know

why & what we had & never would have again

in middle years sometimes we met, traitors

to our mates, rabid with desire, no regrets

afterward we would try to smile — the look

in your eyes when I left — once in another year

you died, to say I was bereft would scarcely

exaggerate, such loss has no measure

I pretend how we might have been today

old & grizzled until the end & still together

Floating Ruin

red sepulchre, red submarine pitched

slant in a bog, once sunken, now come

to ground, a pine bough arcs above

your forecastle swell, a rust-pillaged

wrought-iron gate pairs to your squared

stern, red mottled by time’s rain, port

side an open door mortal with light

exposes wind-splintered trees sprung

bent from earthwormed bodies’ lees

this portal spilling death falls sun

splotched kaleidoscopic in bottomland

water, salamander spawn, yellow weed

how many sailors breathed their last

what mechanism failed, or was it plague

Could Graze

cormorants swarm the pond, heads held high, arrogant?

no, their necks grow long to swallow fish, replenish

lungs with air, their feet invisible stroke stroke, propel

the birds forward & round, concentric rings of cormorants

trouble the fish, fish flee, birds dive, of hundreds of fish

some are eaten, overhead round & round the pelicans

gaze down, tilt & plummet & plash, more fish are eaten

herons & egrets swarm the shoreline, fish on the run

are eaten — fry, fingerlings, full grown — the pond

a field, the herd the mingled gleaners, fish are grass

Marbled Salamander

what does a salamander

think? oozing black smear of

body marbled with white

Ambystoma opacum is not

what’s on its mind, we peer

at bulging eyes, four- & five-

toed limbs, the top of a log is not

where a mole salamander

lives, a creature nothing like

a mole except it lives below

what are these tall shadowy

pulses of air? loud noises

that click & flow? what
triggers a salamander’s
belly & feet, empowers
its passage away from light

back to rich provender?

Twilight

geometers measure twilight

by degrees 

astronomical at 18

                                    nautical at 12

                                                                civil at 6

each stage seen by more observers

later wakers, non boaters

polloi who don’t revere dark night

makers of skyglow, burners

of porch light

Socks

I have strong feelings about socks

how they should be rolled & arranged

tightly enough, one sock roll pressed

next to another so they don’t unroll

bright colors against the yellow lid

currently serving as their shelf — six

yellow lids topping six black plastic bins

arranged to form a broad-based U

against the interior walls of my closet

shelving at shin-level for folded clothes

I wear most often — turtlenecks, tees,

tights, shorts, pajamas, undies, socks

arrays of bright colors colliding, each

crying, Please, please, choose me!