Scarecrow on Fire, by Dean Young

We all think about suddenly disappearing.
The train tracks lead there, into the woods.
Even in the financial district: wooden doors
in alleyways. First I want to put something small
into your hand, a button or river stone or
key I don’t know to what. I don’t
have that house anymore across from the graveyard
and its black angel. What counts as a proper
goodbye? My last winter in Iowa there was always
a ladybug or two in the kitchen for cheer
even when it was ten below. We all feel
suspended over a drop into nothingness.
Once you get close enough, you see what
one is stitching is a human heart. Another
is vomiting wings. Hell, even now I love life.
Whenever you put your feet on the floor
in the morning, whatever the nightmare,
it’s a miracle or fantastic illusion:
the solidity of the boards, the steadiness
coming into the legs. Where did we get
the idea when we were kids to rub dirt
into the wound or was that just in Pennsylvania?
Maybe poems are made of breath, the way water,
cajoled to boil, says, This is my soul, freed.
Dean Young
Editor’s note:  Dean Young’s Fall Higher is my latest score from a bookstore haunt and I have found it so easy to connect with this poet.  He is interesting, witty, heartbreaking.  I hope that he won’t mind that I’ve shared one here.  It is in an attempt to lure you, dear reader, into reading more poetry, particularly that of Mr. Young’s pen.
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Comments
One Response to “Scarecrow on Fire, by Dean Young”
  1. Thomas Davis says:

    I am amazed by this site’s taste in good, strong poetry. It seems endless.

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