Chapter One

THE HALF-ACRE OF MILLET

So green the leaves in late September sun

So glossy those dark spikes of seed

Lying between the potatoes and the orchard

A hunting ground for the good king snake

       that searched for shrews

"A tonic for the cows before they go into the barn

       for the long winter,"

Marshall said, and he would turn them into it

How they romped and sang

How they gorged on the sweetness

At last it was trampled and rubbled, the leaves, panicles,

       and stalks were all eaten

And then a day or two later the cows went reluctantly

       to their stanchions

Into the dark muttering and complaining

Now I'm sickly and old and altogether somewhere else

Marshall is a voice from the dusty closet of history

I keep looking for my own half-acre of millet

       in the autumn sun

       but I don't find it

Now I'm told they don't plant millet around here.

IN PHARAOH'S TOMB

In Pharaoh's tomb the darkness reigns.

       The air was stale and musty.

A thief broke in and stole his eyes

       and wasn't even stealthy.

Pharaoh saw less than he had seen

       before, which seems unlikely.

"Ah, what have I ever done to thee

       that thou so indiscreetly

should'st rob my face?" great Pharaoh cried.

       But the robber was undaunted.

"Shut up, old man. Go back to sleep.

       Vision's not what you wanted."

OLD SONG FOR THE BO

Hip hop to the auto shop

gonna get us a Jeep with a fringe on top

with bulletproof glass and silver wheels

gonna be the king of the automobiles.

BURIAL RITES

Did anyone ever believe that the dead woman

they buried with a bone needle in her hand

would use it to sew a new jerkin in the country

beyond the moon? Or that the young man whose

mutilated corpse they placed on a shield would

use it to defend himself? No, our ancestors

were not so simple. They did these things

without expectation. They did them in despair.

Copyright © 2001 Hayden Carruth. All rights reserved.