White Pebbles – Michael Wurster

We were walking through the bees
under the trees that do not sing.
Smoke everywhere. And in the cottage
at the center of the forest, the rain
dripping from the roof. The children
would sleep or stare out. It was as if
I were a boy again, going down
in a white bed, not knowing.

They are what they are, he said,
handing us our check.
I remember that natal soil,
mother preparing the lentil soup.
What to predict, what to prefer?
White pebbles in our mouths smooth smooth.

First published in The Blue Guitar.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER’S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

Posted in Blog.

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