"Another Poem About the Body"
Each lump poses a threat, like unearthed
potatoes. A farmer’s wife follows a ridge
of mealy rot, praying on her bony knees
that her narrow dreams won’t lead her back
to her mother’s bedside table where as a child
she’d found the padded left and empty right
cup, perfect for holding a string of lake pearls
or a rosary when not on her body. Hope
is the wild-eyed neighbor who cultivates the ruin
of your garden. Each time she appears, wordless,
shrugging off praise, she brings coffee
grinds and rose clippers. She weeds then ties
back each determined twist of malevolence.
When she offers the last autumn buds near stilted
by frost, you tell her they will let you keep both
of them, that the conditions are benign.
As an exchange, you send her home with a dozen
brown eggs and a loaf of sour rye. You both
see the coyote bare its teeth as it calls
to the others, bragging of its feathered music.
Each swollen song echoes through the rolled hay bales
where the last lazy snake parts the darkness
with its cane. Just under the surface of sweet
smelling hay, fate can writhe and play, change
everything like an unexpected night of milky snow.
© 2007 Laurie Byro
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