Poetry James Brantingham — June 16, 2011 14:26 — 5 Comments
Vera Cruz, 1964 – James Brantingham
The dirt floor was swept clean by sunup;
The fire under the cast iron skillet made ready;
Thirteen people woke to the smell
Of hot oil and tortillas in the pan.
A too young mother nursed her child
In the corner of that one room shack.
I pulled myself from my space
Beneath a black Singer treadle sewing machine,
And stood awed by such orderly poverty.
We two travelers started the day
Each with one tortilla for the journey,
Each hoping that no one in that room
Went hungry to feed the two of us.
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What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
Good stuff Jim! Thanks for sharing.
Powerful.
I enjoyed it.
But where is the drawing mentioned in the Contributor Notes?
sorry for the confusion, Eizu. I meant the ‘thumbnail’ picture on the slide show on the home page.