THE DRAMA OF THE GIFTED CHILD

my little mother, my little father
in the morning when the sun is new
my father’s village on my head
feeding me, shaking with laughter
i smell them like beer in the night time

THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH

when you give him bread to eat
does he not chew it like a lamb
and soften it with water from the ditch
in the house of the poor, giving birth
to three kids who will grow up
to hug the dust and eat the wild grasses
when the moon is in the sky at 4 PM

NAÏVE AND SENTIMENTAL POETRY

the greatest of joys in the convergence
among new friends, their pleasing ways

he stares at the field, he is sick and shy
and milder
cast into night forever
what was bitterness itself to know

all of the wine poured out for my cousin
a man who has gotten himself into trouble

look at him, he looks sick
who requires everyone to look at him

lies and slander travel everywhere
into long meetings where on tables of glass
our faces are reflected
i reach for my money
and talk sweet, but when the river rises
which one of you will walk me home

the god who eats dirt, in the red of his eye
sees every thief and rustler come out from the village
come out from your house, they dance at your post
where the fat in the fire now burns

stay and eat beneath my window
like a priest to know the rules and measures
until the moon goes down, stay
and do not eat fast
let us take delight for once
in the carriages, the hurling and the bowling

in his work and his joy, the work and joy
that carries him over the roofbeam
go turning to him then, he must quit the sighing
that blows the corn across his floor

cattle, fields of sesame, the brewing of beer
by sights like these the gods surprise us
but you complain that the years
of just ten months have ended
that now my time is resting on your hands

your beans are falling in the road
o father as you make my lunch
compare yourself to the happy men
who labor at the canebrake
build me a pure house
after ten or twenty years have passed

he wonders
why all he wants to see is me
in his easy mind, the night in which all cows are black

they pound my head with reeds at the canebrake
they beat me down for reading while i walk
they even killed the little tree i looked after
in the evenings
but still i shall live among your wild men, o lord
because i want the blood and the kingdom