The Man Moves Earth
To dispel grief
He digs holes
THE SIZE OF CARS.
In proportion to what is taken
what is given multiples-
rain-swollenponds
and dirt mounds
rooted with flame-tipped flowers
He carries trees like children
struggling to be set down.
Trees that have lived
out their lives,
he cuts and stacks
like loaves of bread
which he will feed the fire.
The green smoke sweetens
his house.
to banish sadness.
She dusts floors,
polishes objects
made of clay and wood.
In proportion to what is taken
what is given multiples-
the task of something
else to clean.
Gleaming appliances
beg to be smudged,
breathed upon by small children
and large animals
flicking out hope
as she swirls by,
flap of the tongue,
scratch of the paw,
sweetly reminding her.
- The man moves earth,
the woman sweeps air.
Together they pull water
out of the other,
pull with the muscular
ache of living,
hauling from the deep
well of the body
the rain-swollen,
the flame tipped,
the milk-fed-
all that cycles
through lives moving,
lives sweeping, water
circulating between them
like breath,
drawn out of by light.