SMOKEHOUSE DIRT by Robert Morgan

The shadow of the meat-hung roof puddles 
sterile as the site of Carthage. Rain will 
lick away the savor in about 
a century. The light cannot feel at 

home on this ground for a while, nor rabbits 
warm here at a hearth of vegetation. 

The scald won’t even 
hold a drop of snow, but eats away the lush crystals fast as heat. 

Where the smoked ham sweated and fatback wept 
its oils, and molasses cooked 
down to plasma in jars, erosion 

rubs brine in the wound same as a pissbum 
in the pasture. The lye tub drooled its 
whey also. Hunger has left a tear 
track, recondite among the thickets.... Let it 

scab and fur over on its own 
and offer no crop bigger than dew 
and the beadwork of berrypicking. 

My secret pleasure: to come and watch 
these shoots work up 
their honey from bitter clay. 

Lichen gardens improve the scars, 
patching over history. I offer 
the land my leisure.