and the road twisted on to his loveless
house and his cornfield dying
in the scarecrow’s arms.
—Robert Hayden
Today the sun
has fists, not rays. Nothing delicate
happens here. Watch
the beating that goes
ignored: The Circle, evening,
the monument in call
of war, a common Indiana
ranch w/the roof
ripped off.
Boruch says the Midwest is sieve, pass—
through, permanently
in transit, flux.
It is the get-here-to-get-there,
the sun’s mapped fists
in an orange 6 o’clock
beat down, the tenants
strewn about the concrete circumference, liquid
in states of rest, skin & bone
poured over the curb
of South Meridian, splayed
beneath a mailbox, propped against
a garbage can outside
St___b___s. The suits’
& walkers’ heads turn,
sidestepping the future
they escaped, eyes on
a latte, the next block.
Today the sun
has a better haymaker,
a better uppercut,
a wicked right/left combo.
Today the sun
is perfecting its roundhouse,
& his size 14 keeps connecting
left jaw, right jaw, you would cry,
but there’s no layaway
for tears. So you cuddle up
on an asphalt couch
next to your brothers & sisters,
the Styrofoam maracas
of cups & change lulling you to rest
like the pluck
of kalimbas in turning
signals, the basslines
car horns hang
in exhaust
cruising through your living room
on an airless city night.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2018
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.