Learn about the pines from the pine
— Bashō
A worn out mattress is a training ground
for eternity. I’m face down, breathing
deep into my belly and the creaks
of the hard-slept springs remind me:
oaks and pines sing in the wind till, groaning
with age, they collapse in a twist so
precise in its chaos that the fall dissolves
into a series of stills, this institution
taking on every pose it never tried in life
and, in the slump of over-work, over-care,
over-lived momentum, it leans down
to something new. Lays its head against
the bus window, takes to the shoulder
beside it on the couch, eases those dying
bones on an earthy bed and becomes
something turning into the dirt of tomorrow.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 5.
Ryan McCarty is a writer and a teacher living in Ypsilanti, Michigan. His writing has appeared recently in Coal City Review, Collateral, Door is a Jar, Hamilton Stone Review, One Art, Pinhole, Rattle: Poets Respond, and Trailer Park Quarterly.
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