It could be the Ark in here for all the birds (and bird-dogs), and flying squirrels, and turtles.
Sylvia Bell is rising (dark still), and risen, busy-noisy as a wren daring dawn, high-pitching some river (crossing-over) song with cast-iron inside it, re-neatening and -fluffling her nest of leaf-orange afghans, seeming now herself to fly (quick as she is in her rust-breasted housecoat), sweeping, wiping, sigh-singing all the while, rag-wringing, boosting up my morning-blood with a bandanna sugar-tit, patting me or my pallet on every clinkling fly-by (her wrist-charms chiming in my hair like change), putting her tea kettle! wren-sounds on for the crying marsh-wren orphans, hush-harboring the baby-naked flying squirrels with a babydoll's bottle, finger-stroking (and coo-cooing) them like they're hers, moon-howling at the (rising) sun in the hounddog style, (rousing and causing a four-dog choir to answer), rough-brushing their brown backs (brown as her hands) and hand-feeding them one at a time like there's no such thing as time, box-grating crisp lettuce-leaves for the box-type turtles, leaving them to lower their head-flap doors alone, finally broom-propping our door-screen open for easy cat- (and greenglass dragonfly-) passage, lighting now beside me on my quilt-cushioned croker-pad, panting some, forehead-beaded, resting where we're feasting on the floor.
Sylvia's salving my calf.
Her trailer-house on the inside is orange as an opened yam.
Last night she mangered me in bible-quilts on a croker-sack pallet.
I slept like something clover-kept and fed.
The smells hereabouts are bucket-milk and breakfast crossed with corn-crib and pasture.
My calf-patch is oblong like a yam.
Yesterday she said Come on through the door, let's get you good & homely.
Then I homed her in on where I'm torn.
I can make a yam breathe steam like a vented volcano!
Sylvia's salving my calf.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 184, no. 5, Sept. 2004. Used with permission.
Sylvia Bell is rising (dark still), and risen, busy-noisy as a wren daring dawn, high-pitching some river (crossing-over) song with cast-iron inside it, re-neatening and -fluffling her nest of leaf-orange afghans, seeming now herself to fly (quick as she is in her rust-breasted housecoat), sweeping, wiping, sigh-singing all the while, rag-wringing, boosting up my morning-blood with a bandanna sugar-tit, patting me or my pallet on every clinkling fly-by (her wrist-charms chiming in my hair like change), putting her tea kettle! wren-sounds on for the crying marsh-wren orphans, hush-harboring the baby-naked flying squirrels with a babydoll's bottle, finger-stroking (and coo-cooing) them like they're hers, moon-howling at the (rising) sun in the hounddog style, (rousing and causing a four-dog choir to answer), rough-brushing their brown backs (brown as her hands) and hand-feeding them one at a time like there's no such thing as time, box-grating crisp lettuce-leaves for the box-type turtles, leaving them to lower their head-flap doors alone, finally broom-propping our door-screen open for easy cat- (and greenglass dragonfly-) passage, lighting now beside me on my quilt-cushioned croker-pad, panting some, forehead-beaded, resting where we're feasting on the floor.
Sylvia's salving my calf.
Her trailer-house on the inside is orange as an opened yam.
Last night she mangered me in bible-quilts on a croker-sack pallet.
I slept like something clover-kept and fed.
The smells hereabouts are bucket-milk and breakfast crossed with corn-crib and pasture.
My calf-patch is oblong like a yam.
Yesterday she said Come on through the door, let's get you good & homely.
Then I homed her in on where I'm torn.
I can make a yam breathe steam like a vented volcano!
Sylvia's salving my calf.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 184, no. 5, Sept. 2004. Used with permission.