Blessing #113
In the fullness of time every
mug we love, I will break,
despite my best efforts,
but each morning
I tell them they’ll be safe,
even as one clinks against
the next. In spite
of what’s found in numbers,
in spite of vitrification, we can
not make anything
impervious. Every blade
of grass wears
a mask, but the dog sees
their faces and has marked
them well, though we can
not begin to guess
which will trigger
an allergy first, since they
attack indiscriminately.
And in that, at least,
we are lucky, and must
offer blessings to all
who could benefit and
take action, though
mowing is a form of
violence, and may only
make things worse, so
we say bless you, bless
you, sway in place.
Off Orby Head
Every roadside reeks of raspberries
about to drop unfaithfully from toruses,
fermenting drupelets, the only roses
the birds will risk roadside thickets for;
I’m rooting for the weeds this summer,
I’m whistling to thistle in spite of burrs,
I’m not leaving long grasses for yearling
cows, since I too like grazing while lying
down, to feast before battle with a king
with just one claw, and then scratch my
name into the sand, accepting temporary
monument in lieu of coronation by double
crested cormorants who will offer eels, but
hide from us the places sea gulls go to die.
Ori Fienberg is the author of Interim Assistant Dean of Having a Rich Inner Life (Ghost City Press, 2023) and Old Habits, New Markets (elsewhere, 2021). His poems appear in many places, including Diagram, HAD, MidAmerican Review, and Subtropics. For poetry, politics and occasional baseball musings, find Ori on Twitter @ArtfulHerring