ISSUE: Spring 2001
Today in solitary, stripped-down,
he bashed his head
against the cell wall
until there was a risen welt and blood.
The guard gave him an ice pack;
once alone, he tore it open
and drank
the thick blue liquid. My mother calls to tell the story
and quickly changes the subject, complains
about the cornfield newly cut
to stubble
and how the mice pour
into the old farmhouse
like water
through each small crack.
Even a farmhouse can leak
and sink
into dry earth. She says, Nothing is water-tight.
I agree, Some things are out of our hands.
It feels good to say, but isn’t entirely true.
I remember how as a boy in summer,
he never cupped
the lightning bugs, hands match-lit,
but smeared
their bodies’ electric oil
on his bare chest, his arms,
how he ran
through the tall corn,
calling to us before stepping out
into the yard,
before standing—arms-wide, howling—
like a leper
with glorious glowing wounds.
he bashed his head
against the cell wall
until there was a risen welt and blood.
The guard gave him an ice pack;
once alone, he tore it open
and drank
the thick blue liquid. My mother calls to tell the story
and quickly changes the subject, complains
about the cornfield newly cut
to stubble
and how the mice pour
into the old farmhouse
like water
through each small crack.
Even a farmhouse can leak
and sink
into dry earth. She says, Nothing is water-tight.
I agree, Some things are out of our hands.
It feels good to say, but isn’t entirely true.
I remember how as a boy in summer,
he never cupped
the lightning bugs, hands match-lit,
but smeared
their bodies’ electric oil
on his bare chest, his arms,
how he ran
through the tall corn,
calling to us before stepping out
into the yard,
before standing—arms-wide, howling—
like a leper
with glorious glowing wounds.