More Blues and the Abstract Truth

C. D. Wright

I back the car over a soft, large object;

hair appears on my chest in dreams.

The paperboy comes to collect

with a pit bull. Call Grandmother

and she says, Well you know

death is death and none other.

In the mornings we’re in the dark;

even at the end of June

the zucchini keep on the sill.

Ring Grandmother for advice

and she says, O you know

I used to grow so many things.

Then there’s the frequent bleeding,

the tender nipples, and the rot

under the floormat. If I’m not seeing

a cold-eyed doctor it is

another gouging mechanic.

Grandmother says, Thanks to the blue rugs

and Eileen Briscoe’s elms

the house keeps cool.

Well. Then. You say Grandmother

let me just ask you this:

How does a body rise up again and rinse

her mouth from the tap. And how

does a body put in a plum tree

or lie again on top of another body

or string a trellis. Or go on drying

the flatware. Fix rainbow trout. Grout the tile.

Buy a bag of onions. Beat an egg stiff. Yes,

how does the cat continue

to lick itself from toenail to tailhole.

And how does a body break

bread with the word when the word

has broken. Again. And. Again.

With the wine. And the loaf.

And the excellent glass

of the body. And she says,

Even. If. The. Sky. Is. Falling.

My. Peace. Rose. Is. In. Bloom.