Christina
All around me, vegetables grow -
ripened by the soil upon which I kneel.
I fan my brow with a curved lettuce leaf
as I quietly study the geography of my legs.
The stilled roots inside my calves,
slightly veined yet supple, are
stroked by the sinewy arms of a
tomato vine. From my angle, lofty
statues standing taller than giraffes,
bend into leaning and nuture my wounds.
Proud cornhusks purse their lips
towards the mouth of Zeus. They speak
in a tongue only I can decipher and
hear. Two celery stalks are my drumsticks.
A whittled carrot acts as my piccolo and a
soundless symphony inaugurates in Cushing.
My Sunday cotton dress becomes moistened
with dewdrops and sweat. Pushing a fallen
strand of hair behind my ear, I stare ahead.
Focusing upon the neatly aligned rows of
strawberries and cantaloupes, I exhale.
The fruits of my labor cuddle the earth, as
does a belt caressing one’s waist. A topical
strap that separates paralysis from mobility.
The house and the barn seem miles away.
Distracted by the continuing concerto, I
ignore the distance and prop myself into
a seated position. Hushed harmonies rise
and empower, as I nurse my gifts from Dionysus.
Purity’s essence is dissected and the consent
of being is absorbed. I look back at my legs and nod,
as I gingerly study the secret science of a twinkling.
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