26

Spark steel teeth to stone
Til bright blue sparks in dun,
Each rock raked to the pebble;
Clumps of crabgrass, clay,
Into piles to be neatly scooped
By shovel, bent back and the wheel.

Water sloshes in the iron drum
Crisscrossing low and high
Re-raked, re-rolled, so that now
My foot stands in an even place
To survey the tightening skin
Of the belly on which to lay

Two fingers of sod, green-tufted,
A thousand mouths white roots,
Each one a nipple rejoining
Mother and child: seams
And corners backfilled, so
The pieces grow together.

I have struggled with rock,
Large and small, so children
Could tumble all day,
So the curving flatness might say
Come, lie on me, rest, stand
On something sure and permanent.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998