It is an old man, ancient, with stiff, white hair
and yellow fingernails, sitting on a sagging bed
with no sheets, that is itself a half century old.
It is a vast vegetable field with dry, hard soil
and okra, tomatoes, beans and peas, corn,
peppers and squash, and no rain, no rain.
It is a long dirt road with few houses and clouds
of dust kick up from the pickup trucks
and John Deere tractors that sometimes roll by.
I am a gangly boy, all elbows,
bad skin, big feet, soft hands,
and the wrong shoes for working.
I water and hoe, carry food
to the old man, dream
of going off, up the dusty road
to some other life.
It is a warm night breeze dancing up the Sabine River,
blowing dreams to a boy who slips outside under a full moon,
holding his arms up to the sky in brilliant moonlight.
I am a kind of emptiness
that I do not embrace, a boy
of hoe handles, buckets,
not yet a man,
unsure.
It is a lofty night cloud over the Sabine bottomlands.
I am a morning biscuit, dipped into honey.
It is 14,000 yesterdays ago.
I am there just by closing my eyes.
I like the manner in which the narrative has been drawn out: slowed down even. The opening is great where the old man become as inanimates as the sagging bed. A brooding piece but one that packs a punch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Rustic, well-crafted, and riveting piece - very nicely done