III. Mysticism in the Dark
I have to blind myself artificially in order to focus all the light on one dark spot.
âSigmund Freud
MYSTICISM IN THE DARK
As children we were warned not to whistle at night for fear of evil spirits.
Dangerous animals became even more
sinister and uncanny in the dark.
A snake was never called by its name at night because it would hear.
It was called a string.
A beetle the size of a childâs fist was never pointed out to have pinchers.
It was called a button.
A spider in the web of its life didnât have poison secreted away
nor the sticky means with which to entrap.
It was purely called an apple hanging on a branch.
A black bat wasnât fast enough to swoop into anyoneâs hair, get tangled
there.
It was called a paper snowflake.
It was called a falling leaf.
A lizard bent around a branch
was a headband you wear to keep hair out of your face.
A cricket was simply a clothespin.
The bigger animals were nothing more than clothing tossed out.
A bear was a worn-through winter jacket.
A fox, a scarf rubbed down to beaded threads.
And that praying mantis stuck up against the wall,
only a necklace to adorn your thin collarbones.
A scorpion is merely the bent latch from a window.
A silverfish is just a drop of coffee.
Two cockroaches paused on cement,
plainly a pair of sunglasses dropped and forgotten in the hustle of the day.
A line of ants, straight stitches on the hem of the tablecloth
at which youâll sit in the morning.
And what is that roll of toilet paper doing
hooting from the ridge of the roof?
And why is the lamp shade creeping stealthily through the courtyard
and hopping up on the rim of the open garbage can?
And how is that small water bottle inching slowly forward,
leaving its saliva, a trail of where it has been
pointing to where it is going?
And who scattered those twenty plump babiesâ shoes under the bush
and what makes them chirp and dance around
like popcorn in the fryer?
They seem to be looking for something so small
they canât find it, pecking as they are with their blunt toes.
A house is not a house and you are not inside the house.
You are not a body lying in bed
but a bench for something higher to sit down on.
If only you could move your wooden legs and stand up,
everything would be revealed in an instant.
SNAPSHOTS OF THE FARM BEFORE WE SOLD
*
Mistletoe all through the oak,
rubbery prehistoric in the crux
of its hostâhow much will it cost us
this year?âsuckers spreading.
*
Bonfire fed with the brine
of stealthy-rooted blackberry vineâ
is that blue juice at the heart
of the flame?âashy
spoils puddled after ongoing
battle with weedy abundance.
*
Side field we worked to clear
all summer, hacking away at the pack
of leavesâolly olly oxen free!â
our four cats roaming
out there with the spirits
of what we once had.
*
What we once had: pigs, goats, trampoline, sheep,
pits in the gravel road, old evergreen tree
with a swing, and rain, rain, rainâwill it
ever stop?âgushing from wooly
bodies we evacuate
to higher ground.
*
Fermenting red button pyracantha
berries the birds wash downâwhat
was that?âflying headlong drunk
into the floor-to-ceiling
glass, cracked pane.
*
Unlucky trunk with a vee that once
began to split down the middle,
so we drilled holes, inserted bolts
with nuts to hold the cable taut
but flexible enoughâare those the basics
of psychology?âto bind opposing halves
but bend when storm blows through the boughs.
*
Tree guy going
higher and higher all
pulleys and levers, his saw
ready to hack off the base
of those suckersâwhat simple
essential machineryâhe
hoists into the leaves.
*
Rotting fence posts wicking water up
the vein of dead wood grain, growing
beer bellies of moisture, toupees
of fresh mossâI guess this is
goodbye old menâweâre
selling, weâre moving to town.
ADAPTATION
and we take the rise hiking Clifty Falls in Indiana, the first on the path
in the morning heat
there are stories forking off there are stories told over and over
and inchworm threads thread our eyelids and noses and mouths we keep
grasping at
and invisible binding binds us, makes our bodies trussery, with sweat
and sticky web collecting forearm, shoulder, chest
there are stories stuck there are stories that hold like duct tape
and then we go down
and occasional gusts toss black and yellow caterpillars into underbrush,
a flat boulder to sit on, some bread and cheese to eat
and we watch the stream twist off toward working smokestacks and
the Ohio
and thereâs a sound of industry: a distant motor underneath it all, the
minor key of which I am so sedulous a student
and you say: what was it again?
there are questions there are stories about unfair questions that stick in
your hair like gum
and you say: what was it about pain?
and I tell it, how my stepfather would use psychology to keep us going,
hiking Californiaâs Yolla Bolly Wildern...