Alan Shefsky
A
Boy Stands in a Field
a photo :: a series of poems
A boy of 7 or 8 stands in a field. He cradles in his arms a large cat. He looks over his shoulder towards the camera, the viewfinder, the viewer. He has blond hair, a well-worn cap with a short bill, a heavy denim shirt with a pale white stripe around the upper sleeve. He stands in the middle of a field, rows and rows of crops.
In the distance a barn or large structure two-stories tall, with a steep roof. It is built of rough-hewn wood, not painted. It is in disrepair. On the long side of the barn, facing out to the field, there are two large, wide openings. From one, a door is swung open. The door for the other opening has come free from its hinges and is tilted against the exterior wall of the barn. At the left of the barn, attached, is a lean-to; there may be a piece of farm machinery beneath it. Beyond the structure are tall trees, extending fully left to right.
I saw the photograph for 15 minutes, then I gave it back.
What I know
What I
know: my cat's claws,
that I can hold her,
that I would rather hold my cat
than walk to school,
that it's going to be dark soon
I won't be scared,
that my cat is getting heavy
but I'm strong,
that my cat's fur is soft
my dad says leave the cat be.
I know the sound of her purring
the different ways she purrs.
The cat seems calm. Is not
The cat
seems calm. Is not.
The boy has caught the cat
in a rare moment of calm.
The cat squirms
is nearly half the boy's size and strong. It has claws.
The cat loves the boy,
may even belong to the boy,
but of a cat, of a farm cat
no one is master.
The cat is
held by the boy,
has allowed itself to be caught
on film, in an instant
it leaps its way free
up the crop row to the barn and beyond.
The boy who is no stranger
to farm cats
says to the photographer
"I figured he wouldn't hold still
for more than a minute.
You can take one just of me
if you want."
What the boy has
The boy has
eaten 47 ears of corn,
28 chickens if you add up all the parts, excluding the
gizzards, which he can't stomach.
The boy has
caught 7 frogs and 2 snakes (he let them all loose)
and 16 fireflies (in a jar with holes punched in the lid, let
them loose).
The boy has
walked 23 miles, some of it barefoot,
he has had 6 pairs of shoes, he likes to give them names.
The boy has
crossed the Mississippi River twice,
he has listened to the radio in his father's Ford pickup.
The boy can
name the 5 great lakes,
the trick is that the initials spell out the word homes .
The boy has
lost his footing and fallen into the creek
he didn't tell anyone just waited in the sun until he dried
off.
The kittens, all 7 of them
The
kittens, all 7 of them
are already at the bottom
of the lake when this picture
was taken: the boy holding
Argo who was the kittens' mother.
He didn't know about it
at the time. He didn't know
about the rocks and burlap sack
but his father did, as for
the kittens, every last one
had been given away
to folks in a nearby town
was what he knew. And if Argo
was lonely because she missed her
kittens, well she would get over that
soon enough his father said
and besides she had him.
The boy his shoes
The boy his
shoes go missing
this is maybe a dream,
he insists they've been stolen
like every other time
his father isn't having any of it
he walks the fields in his stocking feet muddying himself
he goes far from home
it is far from a dream
his home disappears
not all at once, it disappears
one timber at a time
one plank, one appliance
at a time
if this were a dream he might fly
to it, might run to it,
always getting there
just as his bedroom collapses
onto his bed, his flowered quilt
the favorite spot of his only cat
the one item he pulls free.
Boy, barn ain't gonna
The father
says time's a-wastin'
boy, barn ain't gonna clean itself.
The boy is at the kitchen table
egg-yolk on his plate gone hard,
orange juice down to pulp,
he watches the sunlight dust
listens to the ceiling fan spin,
it ain't like the shit's gonna go anywhere he says
under his breath, calls out I'm going,
runs to the back door.
The boy will break his arm in two places
The boy
will break his arm in two places
the boy will land on the hard dirt
the boy will climb to the roof of the barn
the boy will find a ladder in the grass
the boy will wander down to the creek
the boy will storm out of the house
the father will yell at the boy for Christ sake.
The boy falls from
The boy
falls from the barn roof
the father finds the boy
the boy's fall is broken
at the hands of the leaf pile
there are twigs beside the boy.
This is how the father finds
him what in God's name?
The father pales
the boy is bleeding
the boy's face is all.
The father tells the serious-
ness of. The boy
is gone to shivering
the blanket nowhere
there is need of a doctor and
the doctor will be a long time
coming. The father jackets
the boy lying. He says
what the hell
were you thinking?
What has fallen
Nobody's fault
Nobody's at fault
There is no-
Body at fault
Broken badly
Bushes break his fall
Bed of rushes
Pile of washing
Father rushes
Seeing what
has fallen.
As far as he could tell
When the
neighbor woman
said everything happens for a reason
he nodded politely but wanted to say that's a load of crap
there was no reason as far as he could tell
it's not like in the Bible when that guy's
about to bash his son's head in
to prove he'll do what God tells him
and anyways that kid doesn't even
get hurt.
Where the boy met the ground
Where the
boy met the ground
an intimacy was formed,
he came to know the dirt
that was the sea beside the barn;
and there his arm became wet.
When his
body made a sound
it echoed beside the barn
and it
echoed in his arm;
its frequency was strong.
He hadn't known to shudder.
The boy
learned the secret name
Of his arm, and the name
His arm
would sing to him.
Hearing it he felt almost warm,
He almost felt it was his own.
He watches the horse
The boy
watches the horse.
The horse is brought in
something new, a new element
in the field of the poem
(this is where the reader
of the farm stands distant
and assesses what he sees),
a horse that is mainly seen
of flank and hoof,
mane and round black eyes.
There is a field I imagine
to be green, and a crop
it ain't greens;
the boy admires the horse,
he comes to adore the horse--
it is mostly ride and muscle
large and sending a tall shadow,
the boy stands tall against the barn,
stark into the sunlight,
he looks to the place where the muscled horse--
and now he sees it fully, the brown
blackness of its coat
against the trembling green--
comes near.
In the end everything
Everything
is fine.
In the end everything don't you see
is fine. Morning the boy makes his way
undamaged to the field
the unending rows after rows,
their nameless leaves
he gives names to them:
this one, he says, and this one,
he knows their family name (tobacco),
it scratches when you say it
like the cat's rough tongue
when she licks his face;
it's just a thing she does
she says: I know
who you are,
you can hold me
you can hold me.
It isn't the cat even
I haven't
worked fields.
The chair I sit in
inspecting this photo--
its planted crops,
its small boy tender,
warm cat to his chest--
creaks.
The photo comes
to me artificially
from its black and white
landscape, from the time of the small boy
in the field, it comes to me
as I have lost hold
have all but lost hold of any such
tenderness, the easy curve
of the boy's arm
around the warm body of his cat.
It isn't the cat, even,
the steady murmur against my chest,
it isn't even the green
fields growing
row after row.
As to be invisible
I think I
am seeing him
in his tenderness
holding his prized cat
in a field his private domain,
I think I can feel the dirt
beneath his feet
the horse-
fly landed on my neck.
I see myself seeing him
and from so far a distance
as to be invisible,
from so close as to feel the cat's
calm body.
To leave the boy behind
Always the
temptation to leave
the boy behind. One can't
go on forever
worrying over it, the home
as it
stood, the door
on its edge,
creaking and pulling,
in the trees the hard noise of cicadas.
Yes the intent to return
and fix the door, the hinges
wanting attention,
yank up the painted windows
it's a question of cross breeze
she always said,
letting in a little
fresh air.
