Monroe

Molly’s covered in algae
rubbed in muskrat residue.
Let’s bring the cameras to the pond
to nab those colors while we can.
It’s almost gruesome here
in the ostrichy morning light
for Autumn has not yet tipped its
glinting flask. It’s only started trickling
its oils and grand combustions.



Today
I’m Aladdin,
or something along those lines,
switching places with the idea of myself as un-
encumbered, adventurous, free.



A ravenous Questionmark
plops onto the thistle.
She puts her nose in the hole
and it’s flecked with specks of emerald —
what summer gave up fighting for.
There’s a perfect hole in the algae
where some mammal head popped
up and plunked back down again
but soon the spot refills with green.



The joy
of rolling
in grass in grass
cannot be disproved by any science:
it fills itself in, gnawing the wet log
and spitting out the woody flecks with pride.
The rummaging cry of a woodpecker
high in the trees might possibly
be pileated —
..but who is that lucky?



A spider has
dropped
like an earring
from my ear —
an omen everyone remarks on,
and under their admiring phrases
I preen, so enjoying my slice
of chocolate-yellow birthday
cake in the sun
on the lawn that for the time being
it seems everything’s under control:
pileated. I spit out
summer’s green and bitter bark
in grand gestures. I stand
erect at the edge of the bracken,
saluting the world with my orangina spots —
there’s one for every year of living,
and this year we’re even.
Red efts tumble from
my lymph nodes
for I am in a maple-y mood.
Above (of course) perch vultures with outstretched wings,
flying in place on the breezy electric wires
and believe me, it’s worth it.



The old train moves nonstop across the tressel without a trace of restlessness.
It’s this I’m risking it all for.

©2000 by Gerry Gomez Pearlberg

Photograph:
Anonymous
From the Collection of Scott Petty




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