The cows are out
and the Syrian women
have swept the yard for dandelions.
Impossible comes in many guises:
I’ve forgotten my name
and in the dark, potatoes sprout wings.
I can still spell it, march the letters right
to make King of Hungary,
But now it’s so familiar
that the person’s gone.
Some gambits are improbable from the start—
dealing out no aces—then
one sees a wrinkled face
to match the hands.
All dressed in black they are, the gleaners
spreading in whispers along the road.
They will feed the bitter stuff
to their husbands,
to their children.
There are plays that will never
reveal themselves, as
I lift these vegetables from their forgotten bed,
sever the spoiled parts—
slice, slice, slice.
Ruminants like them, I’m told.
The Cimarron Review, Winter 2010