March 25, 2011 § Leave a comment

By Jeff Barnes

Help me launder creosote nothings from my ear
th-elarche, a dot for your naked i. Or is that an un
crossed t. Either way I have it—now growing single
shoots of corn from my window garden majesty:

the bra you left behind is filled with s
oil, the faux fertilizer I cultivated from old keep
sakes, ticket stubs, a mall photo, your first baby
tooth & its fairy’s hush money. For charity: you

listen to AM fuzz & scrub the kitchen table of his
tory, outlaw frosting, eyelashes, everything we
found cauterized in the grain, burnt in by way of
palm-coupled terracotta. Blanch crocus. Cast eyes

down because that song about answers in thee
teacup. T has no answers. I has no place in hear
tening. I must tend to this growth. My potter need
s—unlight. No water, no air. Just keepsakes.


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