Netted gems & The way of iron
by David Zieroth
[ poetry - february 05 ]
Netted gems
Who was that woman at the downward tunnel
and why had I stopped at the entrance
to steal a potato
from her basket
bosom full with Netted Gems
And the other women crossing the stream
how did they know to place the foot
just so on rocks
hidden by the glare of glass light
three of the seven
gripping babies on their hips
as they bent under boughs
and moved down the trail
hidden once, twice by spear grass
flaming up from well-washed stones
Those fat babies
floating on past trunks and shrubs
their wet smiles turning back
- and soon plumped down
in the duff and sun
to sleep
where one gazes up, round
mouth full and warm
till someone says
wake up, little piggy man
your time is now
and a finger touches my head
The way of iron
The night before I wear
the blue striped long-sleeved dress shirt
I iron and ponder who I’ll be then
against now in my kitchen
blue-covered wooden ironing board
from someone’s attic - Anne Smith
written underneath in black wax pencil - -
Would she know me tomorrow
if I were swept away
into a dark bunker
stains spreading across my careful
front, the buttons still holding
the cotton here and there
bent to leave a mark
the way a shield once touched by a blow
cannot return
to smoothness, ever
Anne Smith is dead, I can be sure
and I am living, and some whiff of time
rises up from the hot iron and pad
the steam telling stories
as I stand and press
- and pressing down allows an
opposite upward urge to roam
and gather strands
Keep me upright all day, shirt
shun the vapours of the dim bunker
accept my sweat
let shine outward the better me
hold back what aims to spawn
a returning venom, spear
through the right nipple
