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Kell Renegar Poem
‘so glad ya made it out alright,’ she says.
‘i’m feelin’ a whole lot better knowin’ that the crops’re bein’ taken care-uh.”
you nod, smile politely
and step out of your car straight into drying mud.
‘i just don’t have the time anymore t’do it myself,’ her scratching voice wobbles almost woefully.
‘i understand,’ you say.
her face bears deep, dark lines from the corners of her mouth,
from the corners of her eyes,
and creases around her nose like canyon gorges that sink bottomless.
she turns and beckons you to follow.
the both of you make footprints in the dust,
her dilapidated boots are as cracked as her skin.
she walks at a faster pace than you expect of her, marching past the farmhouse,
past the barn where the pigs snort and snuff
and past the wooden fence.
“beautiful day for it, too.’ she says from up ahead.
old yellow sun blaring down like a car horn, baking you into the earth.
you’re at the edge of a field now,
emerald stalks of sweet corn impose some dominance before you.
the woman enters the nearest row,
doesn’t hesitate,
she’s got somewhere to show you.
and her eyes don’t stray from the corn-thicket ahead, she has faith that you’re following.
which you are. you really need this job, after all.
you keep on walking for, honest to god, who knows how long
until reaching a rift in all the rows.
the dirt here is paler, more sun-lightened.
centered in a stunted clearing sits a silly wooden bar stool with three rickety legs.
the thing stands a whole head taller than you.
she points to it.
and looks at you, finally. ‘well,’ she says. ‘i’ll leave ya to it.’
she peels back the corn stalks, taking a different way out.
you go careening when you try to clamber up on the stool, so you wait until it rights itself before going higher.
the splintering rungs hiss at you.
but you make it to the top and plant your feet, there’s just enough room to fit.
daylight rages overhead, no sympathetic clouds today.
so you stand
and you cook.
the sea of corn undulates in mockery of still wind
as it whirls upwards and back, the driest of waltzes.
and you,
oh, you look so glorious up there.
burning under the sun, your skin blisters a layer at a time until your veins shrivel and wheeze.
you wear a golden halo.
you inhale, the cornstalks bend to you, crowning you in gilded cobs.
you exhale, they fan out, forcing the stool you stand on to rise and declare itself an imperial pilar.
this is the brightest you’ve ever seen the sky.
you raise your arms out,
and the cornfield bows.
Copyright © Kell Renegar | Year Posted 2021
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Kell Renegar Poem
patched up. got all patched up, they say. running like a jack rabbit, ready to go. because here comes spring! here it comes! gotta get patched up and ready. hammering around my chest cavity, my hearts running like a jack rabbit, ready to go. it rattles so loud the underground can hear. way down under they hammer away and put patches in place so we can all be running like jack rabbits, ready to go. patches with stitches round the edges, with thread pulled tight, tight, tight. that fabric stretches over muscle to pull two ends closer; it’s okay that my body doesn’t do it right on its own. it’s okay to be patched. it’s okay to be altered, hemmed, and wound up with a crank every few months. it’s okay to be running like a jack rabbit, ready to go.
with my weird little eyes and jumpy, jittery body, i can go on for so long before being chased. no, not chased. hunted. yes, hunted. i’m patched up prey, thundering through the field. thump, thump, thump, my eyes don’t blink. do you think i’ve invited the predator? does it feel that way to you? because i’m all patched up and look a little crazy? move a little crazy? i’ve got a good repairman, hasn’t been a job unfixable yet. this is just how jack rabbits are, ready to go.
Copyright © Kell Renegar | Year Posted 2021
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Details |
Kell Renegar Poem
i nurture the cold like a snake-mother.
reptilian skin
with no fur to warm you.
boreal air leaks in through the pin pricks in my body.
i can only shift to rearrange them
so the wind doesn’t hit your goose-flesh neck.
truthfully, i have somewhere to be.
but i can spare a few minutes to sit here.
and willingly i’ll freeze
so that i don’t have to friction a fire in these woods.
snow powdered hares would make for better food,
but i have no desire to catch them.
i’ll paint you a picture of them instead.
January 1, 2020 for Emile Pinet's Winter contest.
Copyright © Kell Renegar | Year Posted 2021
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