The Two of Us
And here we are, two creatures
of no consequence strolling
through the seasons,
an archaic ache between us,
his side still sore where the rib
was coaxed out, me with an apple
at my mouth, about to begin
a life outside the confines
of this garden, beautiful
as it is, that we can never
return to, banished to
birth and blood, fire
and flood, death
and its aftermath,
and yet we still bite
with our god-given teeth
into the meat.
So sweet, so sweet.
*
Cystectomy
When he was sewing the slick flaps
of skin back together,
I could see nothing and no one,
only darkness. I could not feel pain
though I could sense
the forceps strong, repeated tugging,
his hand pressed against my brow
to steady the needle, smell
the alcohol and his aftershave.
Outside the office I could hear
the nurses talking, walking
room to room delivering
the tools of torture, stainless
steel lancets and forceps,
the numbing agents that deaden
the flesh. I wanted
to say “That’s enough now.”
But instead I thought of Oklahoma,
and the brothers I followed there
where we lived in tents
while they built a cabin,
the river we waded, the deep
well they dug. My job
to collect flat stones, mostly
pieces of shale to place
around the dark hole where we’d
stand and turn the lowered
bucket over our heads to take
a shower, the flat slabs
smooth beneath our bare feet.
I loved the nights, how I could stare
up through the hole of the teepee
and watch the stars pass by,
the Perseids, Cygnus the Swan.
Pancakes in the morning
fresh eggs from the chickens.
It was a land of asylum
from pain, like the Lidocaine
they shot me up with so I could
endure being made whole again,
the needle, the knife, the clamp,
and the healing thread
that held me together.
*
Names
Maybe there are names for the strange gods
of the forest. Gods of the cove. Buds opening,
flowers closing their all-seeing eyes to the dark.
Maybe there’s a name for the air when it’s hot
or cold besides ungodly hot, lung-freezing cold.
Maybe the air has a nickname like Bud or Buzz.
Buzzy for cold. Buzzard for hot. Maybe not.
Maybe the word for knees is clutches, fastened
as they are in arches of bone. What is the weight
of a taco, empty shell or filled with a slaw
of chopped delicacies. What’s the name for
the crunch, the spice, when you notice you’re full.
Maybe the trouble is language is free, easy.
You just pick it up like a Kleenex, sneeze into it
and the words spew out. What if each word
cost you a dime or a dollar? Would we be more
careful, more prudent, more precise? Is that
collection of sticks a chair, a house, or a boat?
Would we save more, spend less, undress
in the closet, feel instead of speak? Would we
reduce every question to when or where?
Save a fortune on never and no, spend freely
and wildly on yes?
***
(Featured image from Pexels)