Rake, and: Trying to Get Out of the Woods, and: In Sickness, and: Three Birds, and: Bound

Rake

While the lowlands were still hazelbeneath an early sun,I'd lift my head to the harshcrackle of leaves,steadied by my mother's hands,only one of them gloved.And I watched, before rising, a woman gatherby wielding her body, combingthrough the soil rake-like,thinking now, how a rakecan be made of a woman,a hay-bound hell raiserbending to collect the frizzled grasses,shift them into weightless pilesuntil the fields were smoothed overthe rake leaning against the pine, leaves in its teeth.

Trying to Get Out of the Woods

the floor is messyrelentlessas a crouching fire

around here somewhereis a snake

I can smellsomething sufferingtantrum hum of insect

I'm not a hunter

around here somewheresomething aliveis swallowed

summer has crackedthe groundnothing plucking upbutterflies are ghost

this—is a land of task

around here somewherethere's a sharp holegathering angled branchesand ankle bones

In Sickness

The devil is beating his wife today,my grandmother says it happens whenrain falls while the sun is out.

Our clothes are out on the line.My mother meant to grab thembut she grabbed hold of meplacing a cool rag atop my foreheadmy vomit on the side of the sheets.

Heavy as the hog in Uncle Albert's penmy snout dripping and hot.I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

We try to heal it on our own,the spicy mustard slatheredin the middle of my chest,to pull whatever was in me out.

&

I hear the rain slamming down the windowthe wind whipping against the weedy bush.

She has cakes in the oven, a bowl of batterwaiting to fill the pan. There are dresses to sew,pants to be hemmed. The floors need to be swept,vacuumed, mopped, the trash, taken out and burned.Then there's my sister's hair, the box of chicken to cleanand a husband to feed.

&

I feel my burden.The weight of those clothes upon my shoulders,the splinter in my mother's back.

I imagine myself hanging up there from that tree,being let out to dry, the sweat of my browslipping its way to the corner of my mouth.I know she doesn't blame me for all the other times,not even this time, but I should have been there,if only to grab the clothes from the line.

When the storm scatters, she slides back the curtainletting sunlight drown the room. Up in the pine,her white blouse. She swears, lets out a sighthat would bruise a plum, the stormbrought to rest in her face.

Three Birds

There is only one window in the kitchenwhere a chicken is being fried in peanut oilits meat peppered and salted.

I lift the glass on the front doortrying to air out the housefrom the choking smoke.

I sit on the wooden step. Here,I still hear the popping applause of the greasea beckoning of sortsa call to feast.

Beyond the yard, I see a deer,dead behind a line of pines.

Buzzards circle, first two, then four,then nine, wheeling near the deer.

I watch the way they tear at what's dead.

Ripping at a flesh-piecelarge enough to lift away somewhere,the blood flouring the air.

We too favor our meat fresh.Deer from the local road.Chicken straight from the coop.

I can just smell the carcass,the meat left soilingin the pitch of last night.

At night, I graze outsideeveryone wandering offto their own rooms.

And I dream. Not about flying like a bird,but falling like one.

Bound

I can't walk away from herethe place I call home.It's tethered within me.Everywhere I go I takewith me a storyof...