South
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What is there to say of disaster? The aftermath eerie the land clumped ravaged. But that fired ground has brought crocuses.
You have purchased almonds from a man heading south. He seemed weary folding them in paper. What has been drained from him?
What are you drained of walking among dogs whose ribs are defined through skin. Where do your crocuses grow? The blossoms like starfish
on saturated sand as a satellite glows such sumptuousness. South to sacrifice something alive. You are your father’s only son.
The man who sold almonds is the same. You have met on a day draining itself into something you can’t understand can’t articulate but
the dogs know as they leave you. As you think of the man who sold you almonds. What will he see in the south? [End Page 236]
Myronn Hardy is author of three collections of poems: Approaching the Center, The Headless Saints, and Catastrophic Bliss, winner of the Griot-Stadler Prize for Poetry. He divides his time between Morocco and New York City.
