Cruel Months
Sure, the French
call
potatoes “earth
apples”
but did you know
Irish
call apples “sky
potatoes”?
The crocuses can fuck
right off and die as far
as I care in this drizzle,
breath visible in puffs.
Potatoes sleep
through
spring, covered
by slush
dreaming, while
carotene
cousins are awake
early
teasing morning glory-like
climbing vines with pink
flowers, its private sucrose
sun kept secret in the dirt.
I decided not to
get out
of bed for less
than 50
dollars an hour:
never
have I been so
rested.
An
Eye for an I
The mics are always off in my devices
because I can wait to know, except for
when I can’t: oh sure, my needs come at prices,
always from room to room; that’s the norm
(abnormal), another trait characterized
by speed: complex tasks call for
complex solutions, but I
prefer simple. Unfortunately,
systems proliferate (they have knives),
and gouge in various ways. Still form
follows function, rods beat cones and I’ve
beat my own into pruning hooks or
plows, filling the yard, so every inch thrives:
here I am now, in the dirt: we solve more
when we’re unclean, solve more in silence.
Feral
We bought a
skeleton tree, and every
spring it shows its
bones hopefully, but
leaves never grow.
Can I interest you in
a rapidly decaying
banana? If not, it will
be compost soon.
The gold is stored in
a spinning bin,
though stationary when
the wind blows
cold, even with its own
heat, small
organisms have smaller cares.
Of course we know,
the drain is clogged
with hair. Even so,
we're as restless as
midsummer milkweed.
We've celebrated,
but who can guess
what gods are up to
now? We've past
burnt offerings and will
only eat what's
pre-ground for us. Forks
foment, hidden in a
slimy bowl, and nails
are no good for
opening boxes so they
pile up in the den,
where bears awaken
restlessly and
frogs eat tadpoles; we want
amazing things to
happen, to shed our fur
gracefully, but our
eyes are red with pollen.
Scratch and Win
Someone is
responsible for cataloguing
the
different types of lichen on monoliths;
they must
be ethical, gleaning just trace
filaments,
careful not to expose hidden
runes:
lucky numbers beneath complex
thalli.
Small pressure is enough to drive
a thumbnail
into solid gold, not enough
for lead.
It can be so hard to keep living
when you’re
not an instant winner; even
so, we must
carry on; we must scratch
the itch if
we hope to release serotonin,
pressure
must be applied gently, firmly,
to descale
a tooth, again and again to
excise
anaerobes from the megathilic
mouth,
though they have every right to
make camp
in that damp darkness. We
can resist
the erosion we assist for only
so long
till the winning gleam is covered.
Ori Fienberg’s is the author of Where Babies Come From (Cornerstone Press, 2024) and the chapbooks Interim Assistant Dean of Having a Rich Inner Life (Ghost City Press, 2023) and Old Habits, New Markets (elsewhere, 2021). Ori’s recent writing can be found in the Cimarron Review, Electric Lit, Ploughshares, and Smartish Pace. Read more at orifienberg.com.