EVERYONE STANDING AT THEIR WINDOWS SAID WE NEEDED THAT
by ACIE CLARK
But then what fell remained, gone stagnant from days of remaining
Without movement back to some remembered before
Few of us could remember as good as some others say it’d been
And so we were all living there, outside of the ordinary crises
Gravel driveways gave way to mud and rock, grass yards to swamp
When there’s too much of what had been prayed for
To no longer be welcome once welcomed once
To be unbidden but not yet forbidden to speak
These are the days that must happen to you, he said
He said, though it costs all you have, get understanding
Understanding comes to get us, floods this distance
Strikes here a solid line that was what was and no longer is, couldn’t be
The moment it became clear this would become a story of endings
All the okra at the top of the stalks were stiff fingers reaching for God
HARVEST
by ACIE CLARK
Big rain last night. Afterwards: today. Oh, we needed it. Plastic paneling feigns wood veins on a green lawn chair. The sun smears heat across a blonde throat, lighting up the clear hair growing a field there. I know a little country town, Dalton sings to the two old dogs tied to the same poplar tree, the leaves of which sound like water, and around the roots the feral cats gather like crying children beneath the woodpecker twirling on a block of suet in the wind. Early autumn mosquitoes swarm with late summer hunger, readying their bodies for the nothingness of diapause or the afterlife. The rain has passed and the rain has stayed: bluejays flatten into fans over puddles that will disappear all afternoon, drank up by the dirt and hot sky between which we all sweat and wait for relief, winter, night. Waiting is different from awaiting. It has to do with direction, with having one. Another dreamer has left an enema in the beauty berry bush beside the trail. One man’s trash is another man’s pleasure. History is what we hold in. The way the body holds what was itself. How release is asked for and by whom. When the sun is gone and there’s no light to cast a shadow, history will have happened and the time will have come, will have cloven my heart again. In the woods, we move between trees like nightjars, flooding the dark with a song. The song is short and lasts forever. After words: let the spirit move you again.
Leaves falling at night.
Beneath still warm stars, a face
gathers in my hand.author pic here
Acie Clark is a Literary Award winner…
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