Aaron Lelito

Even the night is like day.
Revelation. Crickets scratch
greasy strings. Hide and seek
in leaves spotted by a rot 
within as if the North Star
had any say down here. 
Polaris freezes light in vision
like ice crystals in windows
some too wintry morning.
Alter ego to the coloration
in a tobacco field, green parade
of day, when it’s a field
I’m not working. Bob had his
Stanley’s Crow Repellent. Saves
replanting. I had tin pie pans.
I had two rows and dirty arms
all the time. In and out of 
the house without a child.
The poet laureate of Zirconia
grew up around a scarecrow
noisemaker, something about 
a contraption of rusty gears
from an abandoned still staked
tight enough to screech,
squeak and squeal as if machines
were dying somewhere out
in a field steep as the garden
bottom where I set my rows
until their green blaze had
filled my mind with more 
than the memory of them.
Pinch succors. Case in. These
bat-like leaves curing,
dark-fleshed woodshed monsters 
hanging from tin roof rafters
as night covered like a cloak
where I, on the porch, lit
a burley leaf, green-pondering
the feeling, flame and smoke.

the colors would change with light: 
not as all paintings must,
but as a river suddenly flush
with wild jumping fish.

                     pixie cut girl dashing around naked
                     me shy and shocked
                     peppermint ice cream 
                     pink cheeks

She would turn mildly
in a tar-crack driveway and mumble.
She would take my folded poem
in her bare white hand
and read it aloud, quickly,
as if to her self.

                       trapped together
                       sweaty gas station bathroom
                       tears slide down 
                       they’ll leave without us
                       your eyes hang low 
                       like a hound dog’s

She would laugh loudly,
the har har pitching out
of the artwork,
startling quiet onlookers.

                        you sneak in
                        take my cloisonne bracelet 
                        the very gift you had given me
                        i ignore you for months cruelly
                        anger dripping down my throat 
                        dirty honey

If my sister were a painting
I would side-eye
her cut-off shorts, 
upturned mouth
and the movement of hand on hip, 
- something of mine, invisible in that hand-
the elbow, a fine point.

                        i dare you 
                        hot green peppers 
                        again and more out of the jar
                        i goad you giddy 
                        yes twenty
                        you swallow startled
                        and we laugh 

Wide feline eyes look down on me, 
while fingers reach out
striking the redhead of a match
against the slate museum wall.

                         Later I see the clever-shy details of your face:
                         you gently bite your lip, hold back a smile, 
                         raise your eyebrows in expectation. 
                         You make me melty cheesy toast in the little oven.

She sets my poem afire.
She dissolves through a camouflage
of dark background and
pin-stick oil spots.

                You teach vulnerable children, 
                the cherishing smile in your voice;
                You get married in your backyard 
                and we feed carrots to the horses 
                lingering at the back gate. 

I watch the blue, the yellow
the orange-candy heat.
The canvas curls up,
ribbons in its frame.

                 When I talk about childhood misdemeanors, 
                 you are silent, mysterious.

                      I leave the building, scorched fingertips.