Another Idea
       

Another idea that seemed good had something to do with nocturnal death.
Now and then, the finches reflected our desire for dark, dark sky.

Presently, I am mindful of that one remaining bale of hay.
The man called me baleful, but the metaphor was contrived.

The Congolese had been more than eager to trade lives.
I sought adventure and they the stability of a reliable hunting gun.

Following the lead of the wet nurse among our band, I placed my hand against any
fullness I could.
There were guava plants the size of pants, the inseam of my jeans reaching salted
fish or a good long langosta.

Charlie grew a beard and abandoned the boredom of checkers on a camp stump
for the duration of the night watch.
I forgot about the creepers and positioned my body in the hung slung of a hammock
somehow swaying the way our words fell apart between species, between trees.

Sure, the turkey buzzards mistook me for proliferous death.
When they circled with their delighted cries I was no longer sure that—however many
lives I had lived—I was meant to survive.

Tweet
Copyright © 2019 George Kalamaras All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission