The Dirt Riddles: Poems

Stalk, Root, Scissors

STALK, ROOT, SCISSORS Milkweed Grandma and I cut milkweed in the ditch. She slashes. I’m good for gathering the stalks, the pods packed and damp with feathers. The ends ooze watery white. I choke the tips until they run dry, the stuff all over my jeans, make them drip so much my fingers stick. Don’t touch your lips, she says. That milk will make you go blind. But I love to crush this cataract sap from the stems, lift it runny from the wrist, and lick.  I Leave the House for the Storm Pines pitch the yard. Flashes break heaven black as field dirt. You are too tall, I remember Grandma saying when I climbed high on the thick rafters of the oak, Lightning will get you. For miles the clouds tighten— ready to collapse their cliff of water. I watch the current pull and pull like stitches until a branch splinters the sky, sights its pole or tree, its trunk of human body.  Quilt Rags Every time we molt our blue jeans, Grandma takes the busted pairs. First she trims that feathery fringe from the worn-out knees. Then she hangs them over a cardboard box, unravels long, golden threads from the seams, and razors the empty legs down to spare parts, squares and triangles for her quick pins. The awkward crotch she cuts last, pulls out the zipper like a gizzard.  ...