On Burnt Swamp Road
April sun's turned fire-starter,
breeding flames that burn
up the land.
Closed in the barn, you're no safer.
Angling into chores, dawdling,
heaving to the tinny rock-
it, rock-it, rock-it beat
that swells your shirt pocket.
Watch out.
Red pony's trouble; yelling
his head off. Skull fixed
on demolishing that stall door.
Get up, get up, get up your
courage, man. Admit it:
Mary Jane's palmed your number.
Pa says the fields couldn't
be more ready. Tomorrow's the
plowing. Then, finish early,
hose off the pick-up. Sure.
These warm nights
out on Burnt Swamp Road
traffic's up. Headlights like
fireflies that flare bright, then
vanish among the trees.
Damn. Don't know. Don't know,
fists bulging coveralls.
It's weather like this
makes you plead for rain.
Birds, Wind
In the cool of evening
after hot days
in gardens
she would offer you melons
brought up from the
bottom of the well
Amid sun-red trees
hands paired birds of
ivory, hovering
she served up figs, grapes
pink-skinned mangoes from
a basket while, shy
before fruit's tenderness
she bent to peel and section
careful, ever careful, of
juice, flesh
For you, then
drawn by youth and hunger
one brief season became twin
birds, white and flutter-
ing down the wind
Teasing, darting
chasing on nervous air
fruit, seed, skin
Later, before dawn
you would wake and search the woods
for stump water, to
splash sticky eyes giggling, proud
poking fun, your brown bodies curved
to scoop from the mirrored surface
the very living stars
Jazmine, mint, stark butterfly weed--
breeze rifting in deep corners carried
them all to you, that
swelling season
when birds' touch was reverence
was salt in food, there
at the beginning
in dark summer gardens
Tom Feeny: teaches Italian and Spanish literature in
Raleigh, NC. His collection NIGHT INTO DAY was published by Mellen Poetry Press back in the 1990's.
Among
the magazines that have carried Tom Feeny's poetry are Hiram Poetry Review, Event,
Malahat Review and Blue Unicorn.
Email: Tom Feeny
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