Sunday, July 19, 2009

Cut to the middle of my Rutabaga

Here's the middle part of my poem Rutabaga (the first part is here). Its ending is still vaguely shaped, but coming together. I always wonder if I rush to the finish of these.

By Francis Scudellari


Pushing him on over-turned pail
to begin a costumed hour's stare
at the filthy, rag-wiped middle
of his lean hut's filmy mirror
giving it back the reddish glow
of his rheumy and pinched eyes
so deeply tucked in the pockets
of his un-swept bristle-brush brows

His tooth-torn nails tracing features
dully scooped out rather than carved
from the opaque and spongy flesh -
a sickly root's yellowish white;
its deep ridges marked by dense maps
of blackened constellations:
the oblong blotches, bumps and moles
that pimple rippling, stubbled cheeks
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