print previewback CLAUDIA EMERSON
Seed
The way he would have his grammar, the subjunctive
mood he did not learn in school, Claude studies this
garden that will not be, the fact of it
a thick patch of grass that needs cutting,
the fig bush and pear tree. The lettuces
should have gone in first; dark ruffles of kale,
then the peas and beans, the better boys. You could still
plant a gourd or two; you know how to manipulate
a neck so that it becomes straightest handle—
its emptiness for dipping water or feed. And you
linger over the picture of a cotton boll—
one slim envelope of seed you could still order.
Because you don’t know when you won’t be able
to get to town, and you could need to pack a tooth, after all. 
Acre
Ghost-Road
Rabbit
Rabies
Razor
Seed
