Going Into the Woods, by Christine Boese
Curving images overlap in place
- What if I had stayed
hunkered in the Ozarks
- while you fed your head,
the land go as dry oatmeal?
- If you had stayed
- with your mushy metaphysics,
Your Thoreau was
- a construction of his mother's
- trips with groceries. You are
- what you
eat. I make it grow.
- Who eats now, fields dull and
- with wilting wheat? You call and
I'm your rainmaker. You can't even
- feed me. I ride on
- hot, fiery dirvishes I seed
- with dust and water. Some Great
Mother, eight dirty faces waiting
- behind your skirts,
waiting to feed
- on your empty bounty, and me,
- 22 and honest, I come to serve
image that swirls between us.
- You conjure only vapor!
- water droplets, leftover smoke seeds.
- You make a fiction, all is a fiction.
Go back to your Ozarks. This ground
- need not grow; if
it did, who would know?
- Redeye ham fat browned into
- spread over a biscuit, gray and sodden.
- You had eight years to plant and build.
- I come in on a fatback rain, hard drops
beading in fine dust, in tire ruts,
- like interstate on
a ridgetop, flattened
- stripe of grass growing up the
- So send apocalyptic flood, go
- I'll shake shaggy trees lush with late growth,
- modeling vainly the wind. There, my
blue-black earth, deep as mud
- in a drying ball field in
- There, the West slides into the ocean.
- Ho, my Empress. Where is
- Mother, you grow, vision lost in
- What, for your children? What now, for
By Christine Boese
- Nothing grows in rows, and even
- your swirling pipe can't walk
straight line. Beauty serves
- its maker, lush
- fiction. I care little what it makes,
- only that it grows.
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