Misplaced Tension
We go to the loose fields
where the barbed wire pings
from sun warming the staples
that hold it too taut,
a misplaced tension
amid wild parsnips
and plump blue barley,
waxworks wrapped
around fenceposts
like children clinging
to their mother’s legs.
The spring pools
dry as summer gathers,
the rebellious cow chews
the few thistles
still tender while her mates
look, look, and look,
any evidence of intelligence
internal. I can’t rest
here, not that it’s an urban
blood that runs in me.
I’ve got the restless leg,
the one that bounces
beneath the kitchen table,
that rubs the back
of the theatre chair,
that seizes up between sheets
and cramps in midnight air,
the one you say is an indication
that I’ll leave you, the one
that’s been there thirty years.
Clerestory Poetry Journal 