The Summer the Black Forest Burned
For S P
Oh my dark insect heart of the forest
once cut for cypress
Black forest, black wood
cricket hinge
my cricket hinge
swing open song door
swamp door, mosquito home
the pretty red door
of my heart
the summer my black burned by
my black forest burned and turned
and tumbled,
like a justice blind
and late for work
by bye by bye my beating black heart
my Indian field queen
dappled corn fields chirp chirp chirp and sing
beyond the neural crossroads
reaching light.
by bye, by bye, my beating black, my cricket back
my oo ah, my oh mah,
my dappled champion,
my Os, my belly of crowspeak
my swag of glamor
the summer the spider lover turned out to be a more than a thief
of the corner
my wicked aH-Ss, aH-Ss,
a neck tattoo rising at the base of the skull
for my hahs, my hahs,
the black carpenter ants
banking back and ba-dur, ba-dur.
Summer of black water, black river,
the dust among the cypress, the must of an iron wreck.
Broom hall, and sweep.
Broom hall, and sweep.
Broom hall, and sweep.
The sons of your field are fields of their own
and as strong,
as hard.
Do not forget the seed history of their field.
The kind of love that cannot be heard
growing up all the time
My ah-ha, my ah roo, my ah- bea,
ah bea
ah bea
You are better, you are better, you are better.
***
Read more of Stephen Scott Whitaker’s poetry.
First published in Crab Creek Review
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Photo by daniel.stark /Flickr