I FIT IN A BUSHEL BASKET

NICOLE MASON

 
 

here’s the clumsy barn of genesis
conveyors moving through migrant hands
of ferrous oxide and the linseed preserves
 
my father’s arcane loneliness the apples
of his isolation bind the crates he mends
his cousin who will die of busted organs
 
and gone limbs is impossible to repair
he spins yarns to toss below they sing
my boy lollipop because it’s summer
 
when I’m grown
my mother will say I’m made of ghosts
she will spit cucumber and pumpkin seeds
 
into my belly an apple core into my lungs
my spine she will say is the limb of the old
maple from outside her bedroom window
 
the one that burned to the ground in ‘75
she will pat me out of Michigan dirt
out of cigarette ash echoes out of cantaloupe rinds
 
            I run with dogs hide behind spent bee
            hives fall asleep underfoot

∘∘∘