Teach Us to Number Our Days

In the old neighborhood, each funeral parlor
is more elaborate than the last.
The alleys smell of cops, pistols bumping their thighs,
each chamber steeled with a slim blue bullet.

 

Low-rent balconies stacked to the sky.
A boy plays tic-tac-toe on a moon
crossed by TV antennae, dreams

 

He has swallowed a blue bean.
It takes root in his gut, sprouts
and twines upward, the vines curling
around the sockets and locking them shut.

 

And this sky, knotting like a dark tie?
The patroller, disinterested, holds all the beans.

 

August. The mums nod past, each a prickly heart on a sleeve.

© 1989 by Rita Dove

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2 comments

  1. shunpwrites · March 18, 2016

    Now these words are gripping and their echoes are foundation shaking… The brevity of this piece only increases the impact! Thanks for putting this out into the Universe!

    Liked by 1 person

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