R. C. DIEBOLD

 

My Biology

My life on the head of a pin
the color of burnt sugar
an accumulation of cinnamon
blowing through a yellow kitchen
mother's laundry song humming
lawnmower
lawnmower
green sounds all around
all the green sounds becoming brown
and all the fingers scarred by tools
left burning in the dirt from the white sun
The smell of mystery and nature
ground down to a piece of pocket resin
left turning in the haze of diesel vapour
A world within a fleck of spittle
my biology my water
as thick as a warm spill of wax
but small and grey beneath my nails
to be removed on a warm stone evening
with limes and water on the porch
beneath some rare acetylene shower sky
In a cool dark corner there is an antique
bookshelf rubbed black with the oil
of my hands and collected stains
and bandages and images
and broken red clay masks that gave us faces
when we were ghosts
I can't touch the photographs
or look at them again