Winter 2012
Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 4
Poetry Translations Fiction Non-fiction Reviews
Cornelia Connie D. DeDona
as the sun peaks on another day of toil.
Her faded jeans stiffen with the crushing ache
that no machine can wash away.
Their shovels crack old tar and gravel splitting it into shiny
black chunks; black dust settling onto and into everything,
intermingled with an unchained hammered rhythm:
Crack, shovel, hurl, bang, thud, sweep
Crack, shovel, hurl, bang, thud, sweep
Crack, shovel, hurl, bang, thud, sweep
Crack, shovel, hurl, bang, thud, sweep
Tons of gravel slide, hundreds of acrid black, peanut brittle
shards hurled into a lumbering truck caked with dirt. The roof
swept, and then swept again; exposing an acre of plywood and
a mountain of debris; as the boom box drones keeping time;
and she spoiled and just shy of insane.
By eleven, the roof is sealed and looking like a junior at his
first prom, sporting a black tar paper suit studded with silver
nail buttons, missing just a bitumen covering and reflective
overcoat; the midday sun french-frying their skin.
Bone tired by three; at six they drive to the landfill to dump
the debris and then to buy dinner from K.F.C., looking like a
trio of grimy vagabonds, grinning lettuce and peppercorns
from lunch, still wedged in-between teeth; gathering curious
stares, brusquely fingering moist cash, blowing black snot into
wads of McDonald’s napkins.
Hours later at home staring at the TV
inhaling rocky road, pistachio and mint chip
three sets of toes pleasurably flex and curl;
two males; and one female relaxing, steeling herself
for another day, on the roof.
© Cornelia Connie D. DeDona