By Dom Fonce
STANDING OVER THE GREAT SERPENT MOUND, 2017
I breathe deep, and in the
distance, hear the chug-pop
of a John Deere,
tall and green like corn stalks,
and the walks
of bumpkin lovers through the fields,
They say, “I never want to leave this moment”—
Twisting and rolling in dirt, fused
in roots, twined in grass.
I smell the oil on the mechanic’s cheek,
crackle-rising smoke in the coal-lit factories—
taste brow-sweat the artist leaks down her
face, and feel her lonesome stomach burble, as eyes
focus on work and only that.
The air is communal,
is torn and space is singular—each of one
everybody carving a great serpent—
curving through unknowns,
absorbing mysteries by mouthfuls—
in their own eyes, on their own land, soft like blocked lard.