Confessions of a Former Scarecrow
Nineteen: I wear the hat, work
my body down to straw, and move
into place over the fields. Crows pipe
to me: I do not dance. Instead,
I listen close. When the owls cry,
I know darkness. Crows come, and go
without. I take after them: turn,
harden, and let the others hang.
I like the cling of my old clothes,
and like the mountain range of muscles,
my shoulders flexed before a mirror,
like a Greek sculpture, a god,
a woman whispers, and we stare
together, my body turned, seeming
to walk away, my face wrenched,
not believing what it beholds.
At my thinnest, I think about
the one before me, the boy I was
who at the table is told to stop,
others knowing what I do not
know to admit: the food grows cold
on our plates—one, too old to play,
sits silent; the other, too young to sulk,
watches as I close my eyes and wait.
I’m not a man but a wariness,
a warning to keep clear of the field.
I stand, friendless—what friends, tell me,
are apple trees, a trail of leaves,
the wasted weather, these apples worn
to a sun-brown, and then just brown,
a rot and musk—everyone reeks
to me, no man, half-made of air.
When each fall comes, I fall in lines
across the field. Crows pick me out
of food for weeks. Photographs
of then are lost (I tell myself
they’re lost). Bare, at the mirror,
I still don’t see a man, I see
what could still be lost, what kept.
Owls cry, leave darkness on my tongue.
