James Magorian
HUSKING
It is arcane knowledge,
and if you seen one, you’ve seen them all,
the small hooks
attached to leather straps
hunkered in a box of tools
at farm sales.
Like reaching into a well for moonlight,
I select one, wipe off the dust
with a month to spare.
When my father unwraps the present,
his 77th birthday, hands swollen, covered
with liver spots, puffy fingers tugging
the bright paper, I catch
his sheer recognition,
the faint smile, the backwater
of sun stirred silver by minnows.
He centers the hook in the palm of his hand,
fastens the straps,
and I am told again
how it was done,
walking beside the horse-drawn wagon,
stumbling over stones,
the dry stalks a stairway winding
away from words,
how the ear was grabbed, hooked,
shucked in one flying motion,
and tossed, rows of golden teeth bared,
against the bangboard
to drop into the creaky-axeled wagon,
how hands grew numb in gloves
made with two thumbs because a thumb
wore out quicker than the rest of the glove,
how the breath was white clouds,
the snakes deep underground,
tangled like old harness,
how the pheasants slinked soundlessly away
like pickpockets in a crowd,
how there was a need to be perfect,
miss none,
because times were hard.
We sit, mute, exhausted from the field’s raw vowels,
longing, separating.