The first thing I saw in Virginia,
in the woods there, on that farm
where my body was free,
were the sunflowers.
Their faces: human, wide,
and blushing, were a mockery of life.
As in: sit your ass down.
As in: put the shell to your ear,
convince yourself of its voice.
As in: I have always been an embarrassment
to the rest of the living things.
II.
This must be how the barnacles
on the body of the salmon feel.
III.
On the way to the cemetery
(where we planned to bury
the day, last night’s sickness,
the sadness dusk washed over us)
the glow of the mushroom caught us.
Its orange body: a saint
and we were predators.
We forgot about the burial,
carried the mushroom
between us, its meat clinging easily
to the sliver of dead tree. Our shoulders
slumped by the weight. The mile walk
back was a prize. Later, in the kitchen,
we broke the body and tried to preserve
the shape of the puckered heart.
I couldn’t understand ‘til I tasted the thing.
IV.
I went out and wrestled
away the sorry thunder
from the overworked land.
---marlo barrera; august 2010
2 comments:
great.
you're great.
Hi. I think you are one of the best poets at Oberlin. I graduated last year, so that world seems a little removed from me now, but something reminded me of your poetry and brought me to your blog. We even meet once -- and talked about Rilke. I remember that. Talent is rare, and you have it. Poetry is such a quiet talent; it barely makes a stir, now that people don't care much about poetry anymore, but for those of us who do it is such an immediate feeling: the recognition of poetry instead of the mimicry of poetry, the subtle feeling of art. Take care.
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