Laressa Dickey Poems

 

 

 

Blue-Tick

 

 

In the way the wind often does, in the way

 

the wind and often, does it not appear

often on a dirt lined hand, does it appear

 

that a hand, a dirt grind, ground in

like hands, not pauses, but hands

linked in dirt in the way the wind

 

appears, in that††††††††††††††††††††† way

 

 

My right hand on the same side as yours

 

 

In the corner opposite me, angle within

an angle. How things donít touch, and the space

 

between them hums, ††††††††††† charges.How the space

takes the form of a hand, leftover

 

shaking itself of hello, goodbye

 

 

right on the same side as you

 

 

The quiet tonight. In my hand

moving toward this heart

 

the wind and often, does it not appear

 

breath, the hand reminding

buy saltines, touch somebodyís face

 

Hands are days when I forget the lash of silk

 

We knew †††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† everything

 

 

Often on a dirt lined hand, does it appear

what passed between tabletop and drawer

 

What God is not, fingered in my front pocket

Change. But yes, when you said I was

removed from my own feelings, I went

looking †††††††††† ††††††††††† my whole life

 

 

Braided gate. We put the red mare down

Foot. What appears to put down

 

What grows toward home? The season

for passage. Time†††††† shuffling

a stiff deck. Who kept score †††††††††††† Iím

not recalling

 

Toss the corner over you †††† shoulder

The way the wind often I thought

 

 

That yearn is not young, but close. Horseshoes

around a ring

 

like a wooden neck; like cheese

 

holes for small fingers, for tongues and teeth

 

 

The way home hung in the air around

 

our hands, felt something like hands

 

like pauses in dirt

 

*

 

Punica Granatum

for AG

 

Roll the fruit in your hands until itís bruised.

 

What song did you sing on your way to the Caspian sea?

 

You were loading pomegranates into the truck.

 

Folding your boy heart into a paper crane.

 

It flocks in chambers. Corners.

 

The boy is outside. The boy

 

is outside the orchard.

 

The color of the earth here is the moon

 

under which you were born. All things scarlet hold truth:

 

stains the lips, the white shirt, tiny seed.

 

The boy is inside each tree. Tonight he writes across endless rows.

 

Sometimes in darkness, your spine dodges

 

the bullet that never aims at you.

 

The boyís heart is inside. He ducks behind the gate (finally)

 

there his grandmother greets him.

 

You hold the fruit in your palm and lift it to your lips, biting a tiny hole in the skin.

 

You had been hoping for a friendly face.

 

Roll the fruit in your hands but cradle it.

 

 

**

 

Laressa Dickey is a poet, dancer and teacher. Her artistic work has been influenced by the exploration of many forms, including painting, gardening, site-specific performance, contact improvisation, and mosaics. She grew up on her family's tobacco farm in rural Tennessee amidst tall poplars and to this day likes to take to the woods for solace of every kind.

 

Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/dickeyl_poems.php