my uncle peanut's picture

ben and his long face

Ben has been weeding for days now,

one long strip of land that may,

or may not, be used for our lettuce.

He's been out there, crouched in steel

tip boots, armed with a spade,

since last monday, when he heard

how his grandfather had died.

Now he speaks lowly to the wheelbarrow,

to the stubborn dandelion, the nettle.

No matter of rain,

let rivers form beneath him.

He quits only when you

kneel and take his clumsy hands,

rub the soil into your palms as well,

eat at his alter and lead him back,

by evening, to the supper table.

mostly for mom

once on an evening, she blew tree bark up my nose

and my head fell out my ears, while my mind sunk into my ribs.

i jumped into the ocean and swallowed breathes of salt water,

then lost my green shorts in the surf.

as i grow older, i find the first sighting of fireflies fuller,

thicker, more significant, more dense.

they flicker over the fields and i take them in,

replace my thoughts with insects,

replace my objects with actions,

my life with hers, yours, his.

i go home and sleep, listening to the scuffles,

just sounding like raccoons,

really being feelings.

i'd like to

slouch as the cats do, lean one eye into the other.

find segments of wool and wall to rely on,

pull muscle from muscle out into whiskered fur,

keep your sense of scent wet,

sleep, then sleep more.

`Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.)

i'm wondering whether i should

grow pies or turn into a magpie

or reincarnate

now

and see if there is a difference later.

should i sleep in shorts, or slips, or socks?

shouldn't i be ready, now, for bed?

what are we doing then

I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

-wislawa szymborska-