Composting, 30 July 1977
The soil did not swaddle;
would not entertain
in careless adoration
demands we made of it:
stripping, caressing, coaxing.
Until we learned how to cow.
Held the press of our weight
tighter than promises.
So we saturated it
with accelerants like wonder
& hunger. Warmed it with
our hopeful & certain bodies.
In The Acts: All that believed
were together & had all things
in common. In my bag, apples
the size of my fist bump & bruise.
I chase dry my petition for a sober
whose blooming does not chafe,
Prell that convinces boys & bounce.
Bay my selfish prattle with chore.
Coax from the broom’s hiss a rhythmic
flagellation: there| arehard| erplaces| tobe.
The Cause, 28 December 1977
We step bravely into the fasting.
Salty skinned and doe-eyed;
more got than give. The wild,
ferrous & mossy, thickens
our hair, intoxicates us holy.
You might crave God’s good Earth
when it’s not the bowl of your back
turned on its face, empty. Might be
sincere in your giddy abstinence ripe
with the way God makes. Except the one
he doesn’t. I draw a circle in his palm;
bullseye it with my pointer: We are Here.
Then slurp. He only jerks away to be coy.
He’s intoxicated by the smell of my hair
dusting his calluses in its own drizzle of kisses.
(Poet darlene anita scott is a regular contributor to the jonestown report. Her complete collection of writings and poetry for this site may be found here. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.)