A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night. Robert Bly He has dragged his muddy feet into the kitchen again, as I cry at the counter peeling and chopping. I, too, once looked up at the night. Now, the stars, I prefer to drink them. Dancing in my glass, lighting the dark corners of my grubby badger heart, they will subside, I know. But what of the happiness they wrought? Laughter around a table, flavor of onions and mustard and salt, music to drown the sound of his weeping. All the gods are fallen. I am not heartbroken. Cronus eats his children, we know what Abraham was prepared to do for his Lord. I dig in the dirt for potatoes and beets that taste of earth. No one can convince me the dirt is not beautiful. Had we disdained the serpent and the badger less we would not now be looking to Mars to save us. Pour some wine, turn up the music. Can we please not have to listen to that infernal weeping? -- Copyright 2019 Roberta Hatcher Roberta Hatcher is the author of French Lessons.