TWO POEMS
The Hawthorn
A woman thoughtshe saw Christin a tin pail of milkon the barn floorrain outside His faceblue as marblein the predawnmilking what were Hiskeepsakes as a childa stone maybestashed in the dirta conker likeboys collected forfuel and left rottingin heaps nearrailway stationsduring WWI the casingsreminded Him ofHis mother the shapeher hands madedays she foundher temper—lostwe say—but is thattrue? the woman knewit’s always therein the tree in the limbs’restraint beneaththe shell the solventthe hard darkseed chemists rushedto ferment then sentto trenches mencut from the farmlanda woman sawChrist in the mistfertilizer’s stale scentcome in throughthe eaves come Jesusin the sweethay dampening
