Michael Earl Craig

The Rudiment

Once upon a time there was a big rock

(who knows how big it was)

in a meadow at the edge of Londinium.

This big rock sat almost entirely underground,

only the tip of it exposed,

the least little bit.

Still, an impressive poke of rock.

One day through this meadow passed a man

who tripped on the tip of this rock.

He stood up and looked at the rock—

this will be the last time, he thought,

that I will trip over this.

The man bent down and grasped what he could

of this rock and tried to lift it.

The rock would not budge.

The man tried and tried until he felt

a little tweak in his lower back—

an electric flash of pain that kept him

from lowering his chin. He wondered how much

of this rock was unbeknownst to him,

and exited the meadow.

Three hundred years passed and another man

walked through the same meadow

and tripped on this rock. He was a more

contemplative man than this other man,

removing first his cloak, then his tunic.

He spat on his hands and bent down

so that he could grasp this rock and lift it,

and throw it as far as possible.                                                

But the rock would not budge.

The man paused, staring at the rock.

He was a descendent of Neanderthals

(although did not think of himself this way)

and bent back down again to lift this big rock

but the rock did not move.

The man became enraged, straining.

He felt an electric flash of pain in his lower back.

He stood up—could now barely move

his head—and left the meadow slowly.

This meadow which, seven centuries later,

would become Norman London.

When Soap Gets Tired 

            1

It can get dry.

Or it can seem wetter than usual.

The soap dish as cot

for tired soaps—

or the gurney of a soap,

one wheel squeaking.

Like watching old so-and-sos sleeping this

soap getting tired.

  [ add one line here? ]

We back out of the room

and close the door.

2

              in the sleep-mind

the steeple fights the tower fights

        the spire…

Low Voices…   Cigarette Smoke…

There is a disturbance at the bottom of a lake

settled silt unsettling

something emerging from goo

it’s a corpse and it breaks free

up off the floor and begins to rise

hair fluttering superbly the corpse does rise

upward though moonlight

cement shoes (lace-less)

one for each foot

as if pushing this thing as it goes

mouth duct-taped

eyes wide open

eyeglasses!

from a dark clump of reeds they come

flying promptly over

attaching themselves to the face of this body

     [five more seconds]

head busting through surface

an unsheathing sound

and up a board quickly a blue-suited man

the board tipped down now

abruptly leveled

voices… people squabbling…

god dammit Gary!

clank of rowboat

rowboat sounds

boat moving backwards… backwards…

low voices

cigarette smoke

a van

sound of tires on gravel

sunset

low voices

cigarette smoke…

The Teller

A woman comes out of the bank

(the teller we’ve been hearing about?)

and sees our trucks and comes over

and kneels down and begins checking our tires

she squeezes a tire, gets up, goes to the next tire

she stands up and brushes her skirt

cinders stuck to her knees

and reaches into a vest pocket

pulls out a guitar pick

and goes around to each tire

to let a little air out

she says she “prefers a little less air”

we don’t say anything

can’t think of anything to say

(it’s unusual for us)

then she picks up the two totes

she’s set down on the walk and she leaves

we get into our trucks and start the engines

these are the loudest trucks in town

two big flags mounted on five-foot dowel rods

one on each rear corner of each of our truck boxes

as we start down Main Street they begin to flutter

the flags of two yet-to-be-imagined countries.