If the part that screws
is the head — this X-
shaped tip — then
the other end must be
tail: the shaft rooted
in transparent sun-
colored plastic like
an insect in amber.
And considering how
the power drill
with screwdriver bit
has replaced it,
this might as well be
a relic from
the Mesozoic.
The tip attracts
Metal claws of the beast
we would much rather
be descended from —
no wimpy swinging in trees,
no equivocating opposable tine —
whether pitching hay or turning soil
their purpose is the same:
to bite what they cannot chew
& carry what they cannot keep.
There are forks also in roads,
in creeks & in tongues,
but for them
everything remains open.
How ironic then that the man-made fork
should epitomize inflexibility:
insurrectionary bedfellow of the torch,
As a bucket ages,
its galvanized surface
takes on the look
of new ice — that blue-
white jigsaw puzzle —
or a flock of cranes.
Something in its make-up
clearly rebels
against its type-casting
as a mere container
or temporary conveyance.
Even half-full,
for example, the handle
cuts into the hand.
People rarely think
to store a bucket
A pair of old jeans —
I amputate both legs
with a pair of scissors.
I’ve cut myself on paper,
on grass blades,
even on certain sharp words,
but never with scissors.
One on a shelf in the basement
beside the string,
another with the craft paper,
& a third nestled in the sewing cabinet
among spools of thread:
We are rich. We have three pairs of scissors.
Every schoolkid grasps
the concept of a balance of powers
thanks to fist rock, palm paper,
Digging with a shovel
always makes me hungry.
It’s too much like a spoon, I suppose,
& the soil too close
to food here: heavy, brown,
& as full of foreign objects
as any stew. The shovel
is both tongue & tooth
on a white ash body
twice as big around as a broom.
I love groundbreaking,
holding the handle out like
a dance partner, momentarily solemn
until the first absurd little hop
onto the top lip of the blade
& the fast ride down, barring
Back when all angels were male,
the hammer was the first
perfect androgyne.
Mounted on a pegboard,
it still looks almost aerodynamic,
poor thing.
This is no claw, but a pair of legs
strong enough between them
to give birth to nails.
Or rails that forgot to run parallel,
converging on a vanishing point
that’s much too close:
the train’s stuck in station
& the hammer keeps trying to hop
on its one flat foot.
the birth of a pear
out of each anthem
in the park
where all
celebrate the night
with fireworks
my summer suit
is a fine flowered vest
red as an owl at dinner
green like a little park
full of dust and wind
now and then a dribbling rain
and so many aches
I am forced to take
and hug
in the atelier of the mouth
I serve the ear
it shall ring
for some time to come
and me dancing with any
little trouble
a mouth on you
like a clock at a bad dinner
tell me pretty stories
about arson
preach to me a sermon
on holy war
a paper doll
is married
to an evil king
an old play
acted only
by the young
I roll the whole morning
into a soup
backwater
to whitewater
what I have is almost as much
as I desire