Thank you and some poems

It’s been a week since Booker’s been gone. The community a person gathers on social media is more meaningful than the experts give you all credit for. That simple “I’m sorry” brings real comfort. Thank you for taking the time to remember Booker with me.

Here’s a poem from an old, unpublished collection of poetry that you might enjoy. (I’ve begun shopping it around, figuring what the heck?)

 

BEFORE HARVEST

The first summer Mr. Miller planted winter wheat,

he brought us a jar with a red rose on the lid

full of seeds smooth as fannies. He handed them

to my mother to show her what he would be planting.

 

She said yes seeds were good as kittens to teach

her children about life. The first day I took

Social Studies, we read about store-bought bread.

I told the teacher I knew about the wheat part.

“Just read the page,” she said.

 

Before harvest, we drove to church and stopped

past our lawn. In a fog, spiders wove webs

like Queen Anne’s lace as far back as the woods.

I would have begged my parents to stop and watch

until the sun if I’d known the webs would break.

 

And here’s another one:

DAY OF THE DEATH

 

I watch the earth boil and break

bright green pushing up

row upon row, an army risen to

stand at attention until its cut.

 

Wheat shoots and soybeans

push up clods of dirt,

as much miracle as corpses

shoving back dirt

to haunt the sunlight.

 

Babies roll over boulders

open tombs where I sit, weep,

wait for the farmer to tell me

what it means.