The Harvester

Sun-burnt arms wrapped in tatters for now you do not see;
Not even the calloused palms: they too are enveloped
By gloves of shabbiness, by tantrums of sweat-fleas.
You make out only the rope, nothing more, nothing less,
Rope as long as the arm that holds it,
Wearing thin—the patience of the one who pulls it.

Taste the manly pungency that drowns the smell
Of backbreaking back-pack that smells of power,
Power that spins the flywheel, shakes the ground,
Flywheel wearying the sun-burnt arms,
Drowning the fields of green and brown,
Drowning them with sharp steel sound,
Flailing like mad, paring down shades, snuffing old lives.

For breakfast he only had sugarless coffee.
For cigarettes to deaden hunger pangs: rolled
Tar apple leaves that leave a taste of tang,
Leaves pampered and powdered to thinness,
Rolled in the image of Maui Taylor unshy,
Image astride a horse that’s drunk:
Darling poster in Mactan dry dumps.
Envision that what used to be the bull of strength
That unblessed morning after steaming coffee
Could diminish too as the morning heat rises
Above the stands of trees.

Two field rats, beaten to the draw, squeak
As the pursuing white blade hits them quick,
The blood of their innards kissing the soil of their birth.
High noon, you smell the fire,
Fire that consumes like an old covenant rite what remains
Of innards, hair, and skins.
Surely with all humility that one could muster,
He could say words of grace over two field rats,
Now roasting bright and sweet over hot red coals.

December 1, 2006, 9:01 a.m.
Rev. December 5, 2006, 11:04 p.m.