L'aura del Campo

One poem, two prose

Lead detector

Lead leaches into blood,
hides in bones.
So much pushing and shoving
as chemicals
reduce my calcic Cliffs of Dover
to marshmallow mud,
my skeleton to a maddened tale
of a poisoned generation lost
to heavy metal’s insidious beat,
a rhythm to which the soul succumbs.
What ichors already ooze though veins,
O Bloodsuckers all!
Quick! Put this chalice to my lips
that in a final craze
I might forgive before I lose sight of
the bones of what once was.

© Kåre Enga [168.109] 2011-07-17

Crow, corn and comb

Panting-Dog combed the cornsilk as if it were hair, as if Fish-Crow hadn’t spoken to her, as if the fog would part in this Month of Umbrellas. She sat on moist leaf litter, listened to the waterfall. It could not drown out what Crow had foretold. She watched the zig-zag patterns of the water gliders skate over the pool, gently lay down the comb and the corn.

Panting-Dog picked up the stone beads instead, their green striations mesmerizing her as they rolled between wet fingers. Tiny spheres of malachite had broken free as corn kernels when her anklet snapped, as she had been grabbed from her lover’s arms and abandoned for dead. She had gathered each one and now carried them in a pouch instead. She would restring them when the sky opened up and the stars twinkled again.

Wait till then, Crow had muttered. Wait till the sour taste of disappointment turns sweet with new expectations, until what has been lost becomes just another echo of water glimpsed vaguely as through fog. Wait till her heart could bend like cornsilk, wait till like the flow of water it could never be broken.

In the green shade, Panting-Dog put beads back in their pouch, caressed the corn silk, lifted the comb to her hair, parted the fine strands.

© Kåre Enga [168.110] 2011-07-17

What binds

The brick shit house had no door. It looked upon sage, inhaled the fragrance of sage, exhaled last night’s dinner. It was greasy. Too much butter in the elbow macaroni and peas, the winds cackled this second day of Spring. Sitting in short sleeves he grunted back and forth, rocking it out, squeezing. A plastic bottle of deodorizer gleamed vermillion as he rose to give it a squirt. He had sat there nearly an hour mesmerized by mist, the slant of sun, a rainbow to the west. A morning shit, shave and a cold shower would help. But the hot-tub beckoned. He reckoned he had nothing better to do but listen to the whisper of pine waking up. He slipped into warm water and glanced at a necklace his wife had left there the day before she’d left in a blizzard. He picked it up, caressing each bead like a rosary, said a prayer that her wanderlust had exhausted the limits of this mortal life, that he would remember to buy cheese to bind the macaroni tonight.

© Kåre Enga [168.111] 2011-05-15

"What binds": thinking of Parris' outhouse. From Sunday Prompts.
"Lead Detector": I worked as an inspector of lead paint in housing.
"Crow, corn and comb": Sunday Prompts.

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