Aught, no. 1 (1997)
Rob Faivre
Roadside Triptych
(i)
Morning fog. A snake stilled
at the roadside, head lifted
body curved and gripping
to the ground, but dead,
dead without mark of death,
save stillness. One speculates,
moving on through the fog,
past the stop sign, the trees,
the trailer with its porchlight,
the pond, the pit. One walks
and minds the snake, appearing
both dead and alive,
stalled, paralyzed, zombied.
What beyond taxidermy
to make of it? One reflects
at this point, goes back
to the snake, pokes it,
and gets no reaction,
save the passivity of flesh.
(ii)
A butterfly breaths in the dirt,
easy pumping of wings,
feelers working at a crumb
of grit. Ants and thunderheads
approach. The landlady curses
in the dooryard at her grown
daughter. The body of the snake flattens
and oxidizes, oozing a brown fluid.
Predictable, yes. here is the same
torn beer can, the same mailbox.
The surface of the pool gives
back the hillside pines. Where
is the kingfisher this afternoon?
The wild grapes darken from green
to purple, singly and in clusters.
In the sandpit, the marksmen
have rearranged their targets.
"Realistic Situation #512,"
a mustachioed man in a cap
and glasses, holding a rolled
newspaper, resembles
my friend Tom. Tom has several
splintery bullet holes in his abdomen.
They do not seem to be good shots.
(iii)
Pausing to observe the fluttering
of a downed Monarch,
one finds a beetle feasting
on the body, its busy motion
working the bright wings.
One bends in low, framing
the scene of consumption
with squared hands, separating
that action from the clutter
of gravel and broken weeds,
focusing on what transpires
within the frame, and observing
dispassionately, as one had
the crushed turtle, the pierced
locust, the frog spraypainted
by the roadcrew. Those
had been still-lifes;
this was a motion picture.
The snake is, of course, dead,
but the mouth is open
in a soundless hiss,
and it hadn't been that way before.
©1997 by Rob Faivre. All rights reserved.
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