Skip to main content
Digging for snails in the heat of a silent afternoon
all alone in the back of the backyard
watching the sun slip behind the eucalyptus
I dig too deep.

Ankles first and then the knees
the snails are forfeit to my predicament.
Digging for snails
in the heat after the rain
my fingers smelling like the loam
of the garden
my shoulders itching from the roots of the crabgrass.

I have dug myself a snail
a snail without a shell
till the sun on my skin
makes me quiver in the soil.
It has occurred to me that I'm afraid of snails
of their formlessness and motion -
in the shell a menace to the leaves
planted so carefully
out of the shell, a horror

- but I cannot not become one
for I have dug myself too deep.
I begin to lose my toes, my fingers
my brain which is gelling up my skull
cannot find the Thing to Do
the lever to extricate
a rope or a branch to pull upon
to remove my slugging self
from the rain-wet soil
(and even then, how would I remove
the stink from the tail?)

After much to-do
and several vain attempts
I prop my snailish face upon the surface
of the soil
spread myself still to the warm sky
and wait.

When God comes to dig for snails
like me, he must become one -
unlike me, he must not get stuck
but snail or no snail he is also a hand
and he removes me from the dug and dung
making of me also hands
that are also mourning doves

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

window in the sub

Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e...

At the close of nine years

I'm moving to Texas in less than two months. I've lived in Long Beach now for nine years. Already I have stacks of books covering my dining room table that I'll be reading for my PhD program in the fall. I've quietly begun the tedious work of sorting and cleaning everything in my little apartment. I'm scheduling all of my last days with friends, moving through my calendar in reverse order from when I expect to slip into my car and drive away. This is the longest I've lived in one place, so I've never really experienced a leaving quite like this before. I remember the day I left Wheaton, closing the bedroom door on my best friend, walking down to Chaeli's car so she could drive me to the airport. (The greatest grace of Texas is that she will be there. Some friends we never lose completely.) I remember leaving California for Scotland—walking away from my mother in the Palm Springs airport. We leave people who have changed us, and we leave places that ha...

wanderlust

I am going home tomorrow morning. This is a strange idea. It will be a stranger reality. I am glad to go home, glad to step away from this world for just a moment, to better see it new and fresh but familiar when I return. More than this, I am glad for my sister's wedding. Glad for the vows, the strange appearance of extended family members, the green skirt. Glad for seeing my brother and my mother and everyone. Glad for the twos-on-twos. On the airplane, I will do my best to blitz through Samuel Richardson's Pamela. I will ignore the assigned readings of Foucault's "The Deployment of Sexuality," in part because I couldn't get it at the library and because I don't want to buy it, but most of all because I simply don't want to read it. I will read the essay by Adorno instead, and the chapter of Adorno and Horkheimer that I couldn't finish last night. I will listed to Rob D on my iPod. I will buy an overpriced sandwich in the airport. One of the airp...