Karina Klesko, US
|
| Free
Verse
Wind Through
Tupelo Leaves
Outside my window
grackles squawk and call
all day long from tree to tree.
He comes silently in the afternoon
on a bus from Georgia
his bags neatly set
on the front porch.
The stranger before me
sits at my table, telling me
he is through with drugs
through with drink.
I watch his animated movements
the gestures of his hands
the back and forth swing
of his head, as his eyes search—
I hardly hear what he says
I grind coffee beans
and listen to the wind
through tupelo leaves
We talk about scriptures
and the garden of Eden
Sunset stripes the fig leaves
and it is not hard to see
that it was possible
these huge leafy greens
could be used for a covering
of sin, in the sweetness
of its fruit, so close
to the ground, its trunk
snaking in strange
twists and jagged turns
He sits in a ladder-back rocker
on the front porch
and chain smokes
a new cloud in graying twilight
The dials on the washer changed
the toaster setting also changed
coffee reset from robust
to light/mellow
the shower head pulses
a harsher rain
He sits on my chair
at the table and uses my mug.
He asks for my cornbread
after he finishes his own
He hums a strange song
and talks of nonsensical things,
of building a houseboat
and living on my pond
and the cow jumps
over the moon.
As the week moves on
his words more slurred
he becomes more and more
mechanical and tells me
he needs to go to the park
and sit in town for a while
I have acres of land
and wonder what the difference
would be from here to there
He only seems to sleep
eat and smoke and smoke
says he is not cut out
for physical labor
and needs to be on his way
to go into the city
where he can find some peace
and be with civilization
his eyes darting back and forth
his tongue spraying spittle
He leaves on the bus
and tells me to pray for him—
this stranger,
this brother of mine
|
|