A Sunday Poem
Brent Fisk
Squeamish at the sight of loopers
and grubs, you wince at the grit and mud.
All morning we slip wet
corn from silks and husks, musty
earth scent strong in the afternoon sun.
You seem to pray over the Silver Queen,
sweet and steaming in the pot.
Salt reminds you of slugs,
how your mother poured Morton’s
on any squirming thing.
You read an article at dusk, how to grow
milk-fed pumpkins large as a house.
Loam still scents my fingertips. I picture you naked in the garden--
can hear my heart shake the packets of seeds
I slipped in my shirt pocket at lunch.
Morning glories will crowd out my dreams,
hide your white flesh, lips red with the juice
of beets you’d never eat if you’d stay safely in your own dreams
with their neat fences, cool air, the absence
of gnats, black flies, and spider silk.
Put up your hair. Listen to the rain creep in.
Come to bed with stained fingers, that small birthmark
on your back brown as the skin of a potato.

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