← v8n1, Spring 2009
Poetry · Volume 8, Number 1

Elegy with a Chinese Checkerboard

An old man lifts a lime tree, ashes

fall from his cigarette like asterisks.

He doesn’t look up.

Our forms of bodies and strollers map

into the land. Cement steams against

stucco torsos and unblinking

blades of new sod. We are latched to this

landscape, where trees need

wooden sticks to stand straight, where workers

trim thistle on the trail,

each day working their way westward,

where fields are

aerated into a Chinese checkerboard,

plugs of brown dirt

lost like confetti, like something to

celebrate.