Lynne Potts

Dairy Maid and Cyclops

Just as the air has all it can take and knows it clear as glass, I know when a sky or anyone has had enough and will pour forth; you do too and I’m there with my pail to bail you out from under rains in your eyes scanning to uncover what dalliers do/did while Cyclops slumbered in their craven hunger, that is: rummage through the litter for a stick that won’t bend in water, burn it and twist it for insight which maybe comes through; we wish, we wish.

You pail barn milk and off to the house where I keep my one eye on you, a habit acquired, passed on since cave men took to sticks, then paint, which was the end of them as dalliers; took on walls to break through, clutter of verbs and pronouns too, then who could say what utter nonsense they had for dinner, but I tell you, they stayed hungry.

Now it’s me pale, agog not to be confused with alpha which is only the beginning seen with one eye in cave hollows and rummage sales: rusted hoes, milk bottles, paint cans you can’t use without a blank wall or two, even then you’ll see words taking over, hunger-talk talk with a stick dipped in water to bend reflections, a shed around the edge, calla lily in a vast vase set out to see through, see through it all and try to tell but can’t quite.

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