L.R. Harvey Poetry

Raised Bed “One sows and another reaps.” — John 4:37 A small space, but room enough  to cultivate the perennial  hope that there’s a place in the garden metaphor for a brown-thumbed  believer stalking the long rows  of the Lowes lumber aisle  to load his cart with cedar  planks, his work not quite trained  to climb the well-staked trellis  of sow, prune, and gather, but rather  just to cinch the rough-hewn  boards of his life together in a way that helps define the borders for someone else who doesn’t know  where to start but has some dirt  and wants to give new life a go.

My Brother's Garage Carpenter ants was his guess, the tell- tale pile of sawdust beneath the siding  what he cited. I came over with a pry bar and we knocked the wall, saw more fall  with every shake. This would take,  we knew, a more invasive tact. Prying back a 1x4 we saw more than we thought possible, but still no ants, so another  and another, sawdust pouring out  of each opening like a pent-up confession till our feet and the floor were covered  in carnage. Only later did we uncover someone had used the stuff to stuff the garage as a kind of cheap insulation. It was an odd revelation, part relief that nothing  was actively eating the house, part  confusion on what best to do now,  our spray bottle of solution sitting useless  as we sweltered in others’ shavings.

Draft Something precious has been ripped  from us. Something with a name  they can’t pronounce has been shuttled away  as it crossed the street in search  of citizenship with itself. We know this  because we were there. We drove the van  and pointed out the face we saw in the mirror. When we heard our voices speak their native tongues a nd could not understand, we condemned them with a kiss. S ometimes grief is clear, loud as a Coke can cracked  in a library. Other times it’s what disappears like the breeze-blown receipt for what we purchased,  and just when we most desperately need                                                   the return. 

Walker County Council Meeting, Nov. 6th After the point-man for the Brownsfield Grant  unearthed for us just how sick the soil  at Chickamauga’s Crystal Springs  Mill, the county commissioners still  saw fit to approve the Development  Committee’s request to take the rest  of the eighty-acre tract out back  of Lafayette’s Noble neighborhood  and rezone it as industrial turf;     more good jobs  was the blurb. To think that—on a Thursday night in November, air cucumber-crisp  and salted with moth-wing—you could take a thing so precious, so poisoned and fallowed flayed, and with three words cast your vote  to leech the venom deeper down.     I hate them. 

  Late Repair Brand faithful, life never waits  for the right time to change the brakes, the moon a Centric rotor  in a Pennzoil sky. Glint of light off a breaker bar, caliper compressed  somewhere in the yard, stripped bolt  and the engine’s heavy front end  daring we stick our head in its jaws and hope the jack-stand holds.  Rest? If such a thing exists it’s lubricated in the wet, raw promise of new skin not yet  on our knuckles; scrub as we will,  we’ll take the night with us  in our thumbprints. Cast off the old pads! Torque the wrench!  Cinch down these loose  wills and bleed the clogged line!  No one can give us a ride there come morning: we’re in this now and thundering so heavily toward light that it’s too late to stop.

A Few Branches Up the Magnolia Tree We weren’t afraid of him but of how  he’d peer over the porcelain, say “Clear  your plate, boy,” harsher than our own father would have said it, so we’d shove  our shoulders back but not our chairs.  Son of the Depression, he screwed the lids  on canned pears and how he really felt, ate the orange rinds and best dealt  love in shrimp, grits, and knowing,  at least, the names of the grandchildren  who crunched through the oyster-shell drive to where he sat on the wrap around porch overlooking the slow curve  of the Beaufort River, that strong arm  of water my dad says raised him when his was busy politicking among the crab traps.  What I best remember when we cleaned out the basement of Marshlands after the sailboat he whispered was coming  to pick him up had loaded its cargo  and disappeared behind the veil of Spanish moss, was a can of peaches,  twenty-years-old at least, bloated...