YR HEART

so we've made it here

at the midnight hour

in a corn field

under a dark starry sky

while a low yellow moon lights a narrow sliver

which is the path

cut through the stalks

my father made one day

on november twenty-third

two thousand five

as he traveled

with machete in hand

on a glorious morning

as he supposed god's hands

had something to do

with the horizontal streak of

violet in the sky

and the sublimity

inherent in the particulars

of that sunrise

(flying v birds

the distinct taste

of autumn leaves in the breeze

the steam rising from the warm earth)

now the crickets

dance and hop to orchestral chirps

which pulsate a slow concerto

lulling worms to sleep

two worms cuddled together

who were previously one

they have met each other

again

somehow

by chance to reunite

worms ripped apart

by tiny fingers of an idle child

on an evil afternoon

in the summer

he had just finished

frying ants

by magnifying glass

and here we are

basking in an air

thick with hibiscus

an air so thick the tongue

seems to be able lick it

(and it tastes of

your body where the

neck meets the back of

the head)

and all the tiny hairs

on our forearms

the ones we never notice

stand upright at attention

in salute and respect

to the cool wind which

dries our sweat

and tickles our pale nervous skin

we have made it this far

past covered bridges under which

a short creek ripples

past the achy tractor

and the rock too heavy

for my grandfather's arms

to lift

in his old age

(although he was a wrestler

in the 20s)

we infiltrate the field

to the deep center

to the heart of it all

in the middle of ohio

where we attempt a

family reunion

where we hope to be with our

mother-earth

and we do this

arrive to this there

from some here

living by the agreeable words of other poets

and sensational headlines in the papers

and all the lectures taking place

in ivy brick buildings

and the speeches at the town halls

and the preachers at the pulpit

on sunday morning

and stories told by our mothers

before we leave for school

and we have come here

demanding answers

to the questions age-old

asked by bearded men around fires

in fur cloths

when the first word was invented

and we figure that

she must have the answers

or any one answer

that here we can find some

peace

but we leave jittery

pulled back and forth

by a mysterious and invisible force

yanked this way and that

like a kite

fluttering

in a wild

stupid wind