Springtime in America
       

Wonder of the tires burning across the lake
I am burning—they are no longer necessary
to this great plan for living right.

Wonder I once drank the water—fronds of bracken,
all, from the mouth to the belly. Whatever he says,
the deeper his touch.

Will I ever get the answer—wonder of the road
that leads somewhere pleasant. A picnic table
at the edge of a storming lake, was this
to mean I would be safe ifl could see danger—

He was so beautiful, above and below. The cavern
of his hands, leaves across my face—
his wooden back a dock. I lie there, wait for sun.

Men continue to work so they might continue
to work—weekends, the only time to rest
on a shore of tangleberry and hacklebush—
sleep through the twigs scribbling over soft flesh.

I was asleep through the scratching, still,
I heard the dogs. You know those dogs?
I heard the shape of their need like black plastic ballooning
over the garden bed, like men and their whistles trilling.

Wonder of the rising up. Three days, fifty days—
what could I do but rinse off, stuff an iris in my ear—?

He was so beautiful, above—flocks of hunger,
below—roots of hunger. Born knowing how
to survive by making a simple sound or two—I asked
for a single buttercup. I was given a field to manage.

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Copyright © 2019 Paige Ackerson-Kiely All rights reserved
from Dolefully, A Rampart Stands
Penguin Group
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission