Plums

The Flat of the Hand

It was just the flat of the hand of Death.

—James Agee in A Death in the Family

The flat hand picks no flower,

it can’t close upon another.

The flat hand holds no pen,

will no full breast discover.

The flat hand fails the piano,

gives only a half-hearted clap.

Like Oliver’s begs for more,

offers itself up to the strap.

Death is its slap in the face,

no welt left on bloodless skin.

Just once. The flat of the hand.

No need to remind us again.

Plums

The trees stand wild by the track

public, anyone’s, free,

surrounding farms abandoned:

I reckon this fruit is for me!

But quick now, here, now, always

there are rivals better equipped;

at the very moment of ripe

the Air Force will have them stripped.

Happened with the pendulous figs

that in theory belong to me;

blackbird, finch, thrush, pigeon …

Is Scarecrow taking a fee?

It’s the same irresistible lust

thief William C. Williams did feel.

I whistle under weighted branches

birdsong for Let’s do a deal!

Rod Usher