The very lengthy seasons

There is a field of nettles
near here where men planted
their hearts on the female ground,
denied the sun, and parted.
They waited years scrubbing grease
out of pans, watching the walls
darken as they ate alone,
muddied their faces with the field.
Coffee was sulphurous as Hades
was when musicians fiddled there,
the pigs didn’t talk to each other
or growl as how they growl like wind,
the markets full of men
sold wares by the penny and pound
of tomatoes and squash small
as a child’s hand, one of which
started growing through the nettles.
Little fingers grasped little branches
like the tree of life early on,
budding, rooting for the breast
so barren it belonged to men.
As they perch on their bird-legs
hanging over their abyss, looking
straight into the quiet closed doors
which resemble their faces, all hard
and lined as pavement in the city,
they think they fall when they
really sleep with stomachs full
of women at last ripe and large
enough to pick without bruising.


~ by Jeremy on January 23, 2011.

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