New Day

Ed Ochester

Yes, the sun rises an angry red,
what the Romans called oriens,
what the religious associate with Christ,
and I walk out in my shorts, stretching
and puffing to train the scarlet runner beans
to their trellis; whatever god governs
beans has smiled, the vines grown
a foot overnight, and as I lace them
around the nervous network of twine
my son, who last night collapsed
in an anguish of stertorous breathing,
comes down, stretches and yawns, pees.
Pots rattle in the kitchen,
grits and eggs,
and the rooster with a pneumonic lung
croaks-oohgggHHH-for the sun
but he hasn't died yet and
as I'm eating, the radio says
the President is lobbying
to subvert another small country
and I flip the dial and a preacher
who knows nothing says that except
for one thing there is nothing to know,
and when I walk out again
a hummingbird's in the salvia,
the sun's up, the dog on his chain
whines for breakfast, and the squash
are flourishing and when I stand near them
with my bright yellow shirt the cucumber beetles,
who love anything yellow, land on me and
are destroyed, sinners on the shirt
of a jealous god, and the sun's rising
to zenith, the chickens are scratching


around in their mud and if you
were very young you could say
this is heaven what with the dew
and the birds chirpy and all and yes
if you wait long enough
you will see the new moon
with the old moon in her arms.