print previewback JOSEPH MILLAR
Black Pan
Let the evening spread over the garden
like the broad skirts of a mother
covering the windy potato plants
with their pale blossoms fluttering,
the spuds on their stems
having grown up from their parents’ eyes
clothed in a delicate skin,
then slow-cooked with oil in a black pan,
eaten with salt and white chicken meat
on the night of the equinox.
I stole this round-point shovel from work
with its fine-grained handle
and shiny blade
right after I twisted my back
the last day pouring some concrete stairs
on a job where there wasn't much shade.
And now the sun shines down just the same
over the equator
so the night will last as long as the day
and Orion will appear with his belt and sword
before dawn, over the front porch
where my wife sits with her iPhone
picking up messages from outer space.
I can hear the straw chair
rock back and forth
I hear her deep sigh at summer’s end.
Will we have music? Will we have rain?
Listening to autumn coming down close
with its rake and scythe
stepping gently between the rows
over the mulch and fallen leaves
the celery, garlic, beets, and chives
unmindful of injury or pain. 