PIVOT POINTS | Laura-Gray
Street
Potters' Field
—a piece of ground reserved as a burial
place for strangers and the friendless poor
Then the storm
furls like a snapped sheet, folds neat
into the eastern drawer,
and it's an evening for sunset collectors,
we like to say.
Sky deepens
from flush to muscadine
like the cherries, tree-ripened.
Except
where crows peck: pits dangle,
withered
stars on black stems.
Let us rehearse a lifetime’s
opalescence:
what we remember
folds straight-seamed with what we will;
what we will,
that white cotton, wears smooth with cleaning.
We
remember the blood that ran
through
the birds of our appendages.
So we tease thread
through cloth until it gives
into another stitch. Rise and fall,
pucker and smooth.
Thread knotted
like a branch of forsythia; thread knotted
like the lilac or buddelia.
Our necessary scraps and buttons.
Only
field stone and rotting log
mark
our shed snake-skins, dull scales,
dark
holes our mouths moved through.
But useless,
uprooting old losses. Let them lie,
numerous, anonymous,
as if they crept off this life when their shadows
shrank to toadstools at noon.
Even
here, engrossed in the remains
of
sun, barefoot, abstracted, disarrayed,
you
won’t see—
We
are the anthill's
erratic
swarming at your instep. We are
the
opportunistic weeds you pick:
bindweed,
loosestrife, alyssum.
We
are the ground wasps
burrowing
chambers in your shade.
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