L.R. Harvey Poetry

HOME GROWN Yes, far from a yawp , but call it a three-can cry of self- sufficiency, this garden  salsa: delicate finger-dance  of grape tomatoes diced,  six peppers ribbed and minced with an organic crunch,  and all grown by these very hands in this very soil, a rumor  I was eager to seed around  the chip bowl to people I clearly  didn’t need. Of course,  there was the sticky matter  of cilantro, the one white onion  to tie it all together, but who  hasn’t sourced a missing ingredient from, say, Whitman, or maybe Food Lion, time to time? As to air, light, rain, the delicate inter- mingling of earthworm in bodies  long decayed, these words to tell about it? The argument,  I'll admit, begins to obtain a certain, undeniable tang.

A FEW LINES In mostly pleasant places, these boundary lines of mine,  if increasingly, of late, showing more true  t o their root— to bind— than, say, to bound, like a deer, if you catch what I'm nosing toward here.  You get the gist: never more sure it’s the other hue you want  than after this one’s on the wall, the last exit glistening with clean rest rooms a quarter-mile past the sign. All in all, chalk this as another voice j oining the bawl of the neighborhood dogs  checking out each other's digs at the end of the drive. It's fine. Our collars aren't even charged! Just the lot of us  faithfully tethered to a freedom we can't escape from.

ABUNDANCE Another strain of suffering—if less  definitive and not prone to bear much sympathy—is the weight of late  summer, tomatoes yet heavy  on the vine and the light  so long it sags from the sky  to brush dew off the grass.  We chop chutneys and pickle  everything we can, though of course we can't preserve this flavor   when the Big Chill comes, which we have lived long enough  to know is sure in coming  even to soil this far south.  Strange, but when the fruits  of our loved ones in northern climes  are even now falling from the vine and ours no less deserving,  it hurts to have enough. Given that certain harvests  rot in transport and can't be shared, what t o do with this gift of extra  time than thin slice our thanks,  pray for a sliver of their strength  to meet the wind when it blows  down the garden gate, then pass the salt         ...

FORTH Even the best vehicles on offer here are notably high mileage. Even the best  vehicles we’ve here available acquire  a clank none too far from the lot, boast a tear in the seat cover, assorted  recalls. Of course, if you recall  what you’re here for—namely, not  a place to lay your head but just the ol’  A-to-B, something to carry you back  and forth to wherever you’re going— there’s plenty that will suffice,  and all the more so as you near  your destination only to discover  that half of these equations won’t even be necessary.   

NITROGEN AND OTHER DEFICIENCIES In the dream the nodules were white  as bone, meaning not much  would grow in this deficiency.  In the dream the white nodules  around the taproot of the hairy vetch  made it clear that very little would grow  here as things stood. We understood as much in the dream, until—as it  seemed—a hand released us from this death- grip on our cover-crop of despair, broke open the nodules like a skull  to show the pink that was really  there. We rejoiced at what was sure  in coming. This, of course, only after  the breaking, the becoming, the waking.

SELF-DIAGNOSIS The chief symptom is a persistent bout of imposter syndrome,  more often than not paired  with a chronic inability to differentiate  what you want from what you want to want. Easy enough to identify,  but still remarkably difficult to diagnose  due to the confusion that incurs when the nurse calls your name  to bring you back from the waiting room and deliver the news. Nobody  moves. You look around. Who ?

THE UMPIRE It is, from where he sees it, the right call. In fact, every call is right from where he sees it, because—as he is fond of telling coaches—he calls it how he sees it. Recalling the right gesture for the judgement, the fitting word, is simple enough. The real game is in finding the right angle to watch it all unfold, and this before the dust is kicked   thick in the air, making it hard not just to see but to breathe. But easier said than done, this ripping off of the mask to shift into truer perspective, and all the more so beneath this oppressive sun,  in late innings, and wearing this  clunky suit, which he's sure that we, of all people, could understand.