Fig Wasp
Judges, chapter 9 verse 10: “Next, the trees said to the fig tree, ‘Come and be our king.’”
The male fig wasp is born in the male fig,
born blind, and bores holes through
that inverted flower. He cannot scoot through
his own passages. His pregnant sister zips by,
and flees to some new King tree. Some right fruit, or
there’s nightmare. There’s wrong
female fruit on the Queen tree
and her scooting inward—loss
of feeler, loss of wing--
is a lonely death, absorbed
by the unbloom
(I want to eat
but can’t).
She’s in there. Mutualism.
At least one she per fig. The cycle
is even at my maple kitchen table--
under our ceiling fan set low,
under five bright diodes humming
a sheen on a jumbo snack package.
Skunk Year
I want to be horizontal
but I don’t get to decide these things--
I’m meant to be upright and woke
to drive 84 into Massachusetts.
Food and Books brighting the night. The skunk
from the last state still with us. Is it
dead? Is it dead? I used to
buckle behind drivers
and if my eyes left the road
we were toast. I used to dream
about road trips and who ever drove
me held meaning—a tall clown, a squat nurse,
an empty seat, sometimes me.
Skunk oil does not mean death.
It means danger
thwarted. Second chance. Another hour
living. The coyote snuffling
its snout on the crabgrass,
the fox snoring into leaves and regrets
for eggs in nearby nests--
these threats
the skunk stands still to fight. But
there’s a moon on its back. Where am I
going? Up or down a highway.
Massachusetts, Peabody, home. Lowell said,
“This was the worst century, worst year, ever.” And everyone
is saying the same about the next one, this one. I mean
I don’t
cross the Stateline at midnight, but
it’s New Year’s eve or day. It’s New Year’s night.
And, I can still hear someone from last year
telling me, “I will never
apologize.”
That can’t be good. Not at this cusp—but,
I don’t get to decide these things.
He Needs Me
Nina Simone
Like a woman
outside a man’s jail cell,
stripping off her shirt so they’d throw her in too,
He needs me.
She never leaves home.
She is taken, by police, from
that him, from their children.
With her face--
a wreck. Their home—clean.
The boy, almost 2, will remember
her scream. Meantime—a he needs
to land his conspiracy
theory on a breakable—to buffer
a big goddamn.
Sometimes we stand
against the big goddamn better than anyone, any man.
Nina had
at least 10 seconds
between the first and next note. Then, maybe
5 notes by some upright
bass, then the brush beat
on the fragile
illusion throughout. She is
a shrugging she
looking down. Who is sung
to? Who needs explanation?
I ought to leave… or wrong…
This is what she tells from
the stage. He… needs…
Why she does what she does.
It is un-
believable
melody.
Why we need what we need.
Judges, chapter 9 verse 10: “Next, the trees said to the fig tree, ‘Come and be our king.’”
The male fig wasp is born in the male fig,
born blind, and bores holes through
that inverted flower. He cannot scoot through
his own passages. His pregnant sister zips by,
and flees to some new King tree. Some right fruit, or
there’s nightmare. There’s wrong
female fruit on the Queen tree
and her scooting inward—loss
of feeler, loss of wing--
is a lonely death, absorbed
by the unbloom
(I want to eat
but can’t).
She’s in there. Mutualism.
At least one she per fig. The cycle
is even at my maple kitchen table--
under our ceiling fan set low,
under five bright diodes humming
a sheen on a jumbo snack package.
Skunk Year
I want to be horizontal
but I don’t get to decide these things--
I’m meant to be upright and woke
to drive 84 into Massachusetts.
Food and Books brighting the night. The skunk
from the last state still with us. Is it
dead? Is it dead? I used to
buckle behind drivers
and if my eyes left the road
we were toast. I used to dream
about road trips and who ever drove
me held meaning—a tall clown, a squat nurse,
an empty seat, sometimes me.
Skunk oil does not mean death.
It means danger
thwarted. Second chance. Another hour
living. The coyote snuffling
its snout on the crabgrass,
the fox snoring into leaves and regrets
for eggs in nearby nests--
these threats
the skunk stands still to fight. But
there’s a moon on its back. Where am I
going? Up or down a highway.
Massachusetts, Peabody, home. Lowell said,
“This was the worst century, worst year, ever.” And everyone
is saying the same about the next one, this one. I mean
I don’t
cross the Stateline at midnight, but
it’s New Year’s eve or day. It’s New Year’s night.
And, I can still hear someone from last year
telling me, “I will never
apologize.”
That can’t be good. Not at this cusp—but,
I don’t get to decide these things.
He Needs Me
Nina Simone
Like a woman
outside a man’s jail cell,
stripping off her shirt so they’d throw her in too,
He needs me.
She never leaves home.
She is taken, by police, from
that him, from their children.
With her face--
a wreck. Their home—clean.
The boy, almost 2, will remember
her scream. Meantime—a he needs
to land his conspiracy
theory on a breakable—to buffer
a big goddamn.
Sometimes we stand
against the big goddamn better than anyone, any man.
Nina had
at least 10 seconds
between the first and next note. Then, maybe
5 notes by some upright
bass, then the brush beat
on the fragile
illusion throughout. She is
a shrugging she
looking down. Who is sung
to? Who needs explanation?
I ought to leave… or wrong…
This is what she tells from
the stage. He… needs…
Why she does what she does.
It is un-
believable
melody.
Why we need what we need.