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foraging023-on-the-farm

On The Farm

by Xander Seren and McKenzie Gritton
FORAGING023
May 8, 2017
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October 7 and November 26
Residential songs by Xander Seren and poems by McKenzie Gritton.

A women on the corner
wears the same orange vest every morning
Today she does not man her walk
Today she said, to really no one but herself,

You are an angel
you are god’s gift to me


Yellow comes to mind when I think of sinkholes.
I hope on my way to work– if I find one,
I find the yellow belly of the city
a gold rush of turmeric and ribbons


The chickens call for me on occasion
at the super market, they do this
when they get restless and hungry—this was
before the weasel came through the hole
in the southwest corner of the coop.

It’s pretty incredible how our heads
and hands pick up the cold dead and
warm them up with bread crumbs
and rosemary.


Grief came not for the sun or his left side, or for the man who slept
in the 2 o’clock sun on his left side–but because the Corona Tall Boy
next to his lined face had tipped well over
making a mural of it’s insides
all over the concrete until it found the crack
and started to run in single file.

As it was in the beginning, is now,
and ever shall be, world without end.
Amen


Today we will burn the dead, we will burn them as carefully
as we picked them.

My sentiments go out to the wood–I’ll miss it most.
I had grown found of each of stick. They all quietly
sat together to the left of the brick stairs
close by where the unpicked peaches sat to rot.

S picked up a six pack yoke and asked
which pile does this belong in?

I hadn’t thought much about those yet, so
we put it somewhere near the pile of pennies.


Learning to complain about brown bananas
takes some kind of audacity when you are living off the scraps.

My dad always said an empty plate
is a happy plate.


I plug every single hole with my ten fingers
and ten toes as I search for the equilibrium.

The pigs are being questioned.
I have been found to be another animal.

The apple tree on the South end
of the property line has stopped producing.
I fill my hands with infertile
sandy soil and loam to taste
the bloody necrosis.

Every time I clear my head
I find webs on the tomatoes
and the little red spiders whisper—

“the slaughter is not the end of that relationship,
but the beginning.”

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