a poem by Roger B Rueda
My hand limp, or my thoughts.
The words sluggish,
or my heart of hearts.
The squash lianas,
some mammoth upright green
leaves cupped
towards the fog-veiled sun
no longer hide
the under-story, thinning
yellowing.
A few army ants moving back.
Lupines
in their protected corner
a patch near the warm brick
of the house
still purple as prayer,
salmon as a day.
A bee hovers as if in tune,
then flies on.
I pull out the shrivelled flower heads,
my thumb and forefinger, ooh,
how sticky
with the sweet-scented residue
of bloom.
Without washing it away,
can I break and scramble
eggs for elevenses,
spread toast thick
with guava jam?
I do not get up, do not move
drink in these moments
when words satisfy like grubs.
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