Secrets, and: History, and: The Ones Who Aren't Mentioned

Secrets

Alone in the field,a man drives a spade into the dark earth andheaves it open

     so it gasps in soft exhalation.

What are you looking for? I ask.

The scent of wild allium rises, greenand sharp. The field is litteredwith hulks the size of groundhogs,as if some weird war has been waged.Their backs are furred in turf and looktoo much like bodies.

Secrets, he says, without looking up.

Behind him, in the marsh, a whiteheron uproots itself and floatsacross the water like pale smoke.

Any secrets in particular?

The spade shines dull in the lastlight. It is dusk. The man turnsone more spade-full of earth.His shirt hangs heavywith sweat: I want to know

why a dog will lick the handsof the man who beats him.

History

after Jameson Fitzpatrick

The vinegar tang of a glass of wineleft out on the counter overnight, the hintof cumin on your fingertips, dried lavender.All this is the smell of you in summer,and now it is history. I woke alone

and slid my legs into the twin flanneltunnels of my sweats, and it was history.I walked down to the 7-Elevenfor a Big Gulp in lieu of coffeeand this ill-considered choice

was history. The sweet syrup in the mixhad never seen a cane plantation. It was bornof corn, which is what the ancient Mayanssaid the first people were made of. And yes,this too was history. Is history. Our abilityto take a moment here to quibble over verb tensesis a consequence swollen fat as a paperbacksome thoughtless person left out in the rain

of history. The melodramatic line breaksin this poem are history. Both the relatively justifiedlength of line, and the use of the word justifiedto suggest things come out even in the end,are history. And the head fake back there in stanza one where you thought this might beabout the end of a relationship but discovered

otherwise is history. As is your inclination to continuetrusting me. Because the fact that I can takethe time to write this all down, considering whatto include and what to leave out, as I tap keysthat were injection-molded out of a blendof thermoplastics by distant people I will neverhave to think of again is one definition of history.One definition. Not the first. And not the last.

The Ones Who Aren't Mentioned

I like the stories best about the ones who aren'tmentioned.                    The offhand reference to the earsof the serial killer's dog, relaxing back          when her master enters the room, how                              her tail steadily thunks the carpet.

     Or maybe the mouse watching the city burn,flames twitching in the dark beads of her eyes.

She scutters later among the cinders, worriedabout falcons, worried about hawks, her quick tonguetesting the stains beneath each body, for salt.                                        I can almost see her now,   clutching a single seed in her tiny pink hands.

                    There are entire religions that tellof a God who refused to say who he was:child, man, ghost?                  Or maybe even a luminous mistthat hovered in the dark before the dawn kissedthe windowsill with light. Imagine watching a sondie and saying nothing.                                        Imagine laying downa rusty knife and calling it love.