By Martha Silano
For there is a dram.
For there is a farthing.
A bushel for your thoughts.
A hand for your withered heights.
For I have jouled along attempting
to quire and wisp.
For I have sized up a mountain’s meters,
come down jiffy by shake to the tune
of leagues and stones.
For once I was your peckish darling.
For once there was the measure
of what an ox could plow
in a single morning.
For once the fother, the reed, the palm.
For one megalithic year I fixed my gaze
on the smiling meniscus, against the gray wall
of graduated cylinder.
For once I measured ten out of ten
on the scale of pain.
For I knew that soon I’d kiss good-bye
the bovate, the hide and hundredweight.
For in each pinch of salt, a whisper of doubt,
for in each medieval moment, emotion,
like an unruly cough syrup bottle,
uncapped. For though I dutifully swallowed
my banana doses, ascended, from welcome
to lanthorn, three barleycorns at a time,
I could not tackle the trudging, trenchant cart.
For now I am forty rods from your chain and bolt.
For now I am my six-sacked self.
Source: Poetry (March 2015)
More Poems about Living
We gathered in a field southwest of town,
several hundred hauling coolers
and folding chairs along a gravel road
dry in August, two ruts of soft dust
that soaked into our clothes
and rose in plumes behind us.
By noon we could discern their massive coils
How to Triumph Like a Girl
I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let’s be honest,...