Cora Currier

There is no winter but she saved



two pomegranates for me



from the deer and the salt



winds. They grew into the window.



 



Each year there are more fields



let go to seed. She cannot



stop planting even as the green



up and envelopes her.



 



I must count each leaf, stroke



each new moss and name each.



I must sit in one place until



I have named and kissed each



 



thing and then I turn to the next



in my orderly radius and they keep



sprouting exuberant and I



am weary of counting the wildness.



 



I do not know the seasons



any longer coming as they do



endlessly or never: here I am



left counting the small and kind. 

Under the night’s maw the boar waits



heaving black and bristled breath, night



roils down the hillsides in heat spirals



collecting in omnivorous dark the hours’



end buffing night sounds and bating



the mind’s early stillness. The ironwoods



bend and whimper about bristling



haunches rooting bristling roots of red



clay white tusks between the shoulder



blades of dogs behind a man borne down



on scent wide across his broad back



bulk of night cool on his thick neck



            Nascent light—here none—



but the purpled hour like the dogs’ deep



colored tongues still wet tremulous



the boar still thrashing in the precipice



raw gnarl of the tree vine and red flower



the island’s gashes go boiling down



its sides ashen-barked volcanic trees



the boar barrels through the girls



set on him their chorus of yells strains



through the dark I wait the girls’



shouts into the terse dawn the dark



tree-throats relinquish the yawing



clamor at the yellow dawn and light



discerns the long ocean’s sweep.