The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
—T.S. Eliot, East Coker
the harrowed gardener bows his head,
shoulders raw and red as a fresh-turned
field of oklahoma clay. his crusted wounds
ooze blood like sap from a pine tree—then
ragged breath rends them open again.
he hangs limp like a scarecrow, the stick
up his back scant support, the crossbeam
stapled to his wide-flung arms an insult.
jackdaws caw in mockery, circling round,
while thistles jeer from the thorn-choked ground.
his last gasp floats away like milkweed
on the breeze; the broken husk of his body
slumps on its stalk, all its life spilled out
onto the thirsty soil. seeds roll into cracks
in the dirt. the clouds lower. thunder claps.
if young men ought to be gardeners
then let the under-gardeners be poets,
tenderly burying the fruit of sorrow
and watering the grave with their tears.
Photo: Detail from Christ Crowned with Thorns, 1621/1622, by Dirck van Baburen; property of The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art