}} Fictions of an inconsequential life by Mona Zote |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Fictions of an inconsequential life by Mona Zote

Zebed, who kept pigs, has said his last amen. Having
rejected the world with all his strength
and more than half his laziness, his work was done.
He’s gone through and through.
Last seen big knife in hand,
Hacking at the chaotic greens by the road,
Pulling pulling like he meant to bring
The whole hill crashing down on him.
Aspiring to nothing but sweat, soil, crinkled sap
That he accumulated in his foraging.
The houses around him grew, achieved gardens,
Children, garages, even those stately lamps
That grow dull haloes in the night. But he knew
Something deeper, something more,
A kind of blessed improper law of taking
Without resistance, without giving, except for the pigs
Who now root their snouts in an empty trough,
Make quizzical noises, listening for the step
Of a man who is no longer there.
The funeral closes shop. It’s over and his wife
Slumps back under a circling fan, hair unwound,
Listless, hands clasped around a sense of relief,
Impatient to push through this albumen of grief.