Poetry

by Cara Byington

A Sort of Homecoming

The routes back
home are all the same -- to the hill where
you dig potatoes with your fingers
and Jack tells fortunes
with the eyes, caresses the gritty skin
and whispers omens
to the sky.

Words crunch against his teeth and
he chews alphabet
to gravel
when he speaks. Holding a china
spit cup to his lips to catch
the broken stones,
Jack warns of rattlesnakes among the corn rows.
Mist on the field means they'll be sluggish
and cold.

********

Orlando Dreaming 1998

We are old men now, dreaming
of seamless faces,
two Michigan Yankees,
golfing to the sea. Here, the canals
bite deep and lay open fresh wounds
on ancient flesh. Here, the sun curdles
a cloudless, burgundy sky and heat
is the only truth. We wear it like skin,
covering our heads,
framing our lives in banded light,
in hot bricks and asphalt. Bagged charcoal
burns to ash in an afternoon and even time,
unperturbed by events, comes here
to die.

**********

--CB
© 2000, Cara Byington

Cara Byington Writes, "I would like to say that I make my living as a poet and essayist, but I don't. Maybe one day. I'm not complaining, though. I get to make my living as a writer and, most of the time, it's the best job in the world, even though occasionally it does involve writing annual report copy for insurance companies."