Things of the Earth

By Margaret Bashaar

Shoulders stooped, he speaks
of 37 uses for the heart of a cottonmouth,
his legs twisted into knots that slide
over his kneecaps like abacus beads.  
He sits up in bed and waits for legends,
knows he cannot create them.

 

At night his hands are always empty
and hung on invisible hooks—sallow
with willow branch fingers.  
They bend, splinter at the knuckle
until he covers them with mud,
makes himself human again.

 

He laughs sometimes, lips closed
when he feels mildew on the stones
beneath his feet and he stares at the ground,
at yellow grass and worms.  
He wishes they would speak to him,
whisper musty secrets
in a language only he can understand—
how many of their kin
have been trampled by Coyote,
how many footsteps they hear
vibrate the soil in the month of Coatl,
but the ground has been silent for seven years now;
has watched him dangle,
has seen the stones in his belly
turn green and then black. 

Published October 2007