Recycled Lives for Steve
He gives me slivers and stones with suggestions.
I carry flat stones in my shirt like a bounty each one
finding place under the ledge where rounder rocks
nearly but not quite meet wooden sill.
The stones begin to reveal desires about placement,
the work goes faster. Pleasure meets the pain
of living shifting up my back. I remember parakeets
carrying eggs from one laying box to the other.
He gives me boards with previous lives –first pine trees
run through a mill, then Tesuque Village Market floor.
Grandfather-planks ripped up, moved, piled, and faded
provide packrat squatters and rattlesnake homes
to raise families under the wood sniffing what was.
I pull boards from the stack. Some have a tongue,
some a groove, others have neither.
I force them together, nail them.
With each strike of the hammer, olfactory
magic from the market releases toasted
green chile cheese bread to my senses.
Margaritas, Huevos Rancheros red, green, or Christmas?
Scents of cinnamon roll from grooves,
curls of chocolate melt on tongues.
On these boards, lithe waiters count mimosa orders,
while Ali Mcgraw's old foot rubs across these planks.
BMWs, silver and turquoise sit with callused hands
of poet farmers. Tongues and grooves soak with spilled
stories and sweaty drinks. High heels and hiking boots
muscle and mar the wood, leaving seeds, trail dirt,
and musk.
Fresh flooring absorbs new and recycled stories,
while I pound old boards releasing more mixology
from spells stirred by skier-bartenders. A Chihuahua rancher
sits with a scientist buying muffins for a tarot reader.
Years of footprints sensed, but not seen settle again
on this storied floor beginning a 3rd life
for me and a man who gives me slivers and stones with suggestions.
Mary Strong Jackson
Comments
Post a Comment