John Martone

etymon

 




                                             kneeling
                                             in my onion patch

                                             I study
                                             the horizon
 





                                             when I kneel 
                                             to dig onions

                                             basil reaches
                                             to my shoulders
 





                                             my right hand — 
                                             a trowel

                                             my left hand — 
                                             an onion

                                             two dirty hands
 





                                             his knees 
                                             are onions

                                             and his bald pate 
                                             an onion
 





                                             onion skin 
                                             thin as one

                                             who’s eighty 
                                             already
 





                                             the 
                                             etymon 
                                             of 
                                             onion’s 
                                             one
 





                                             the perfect onions 
                                             filling my basket
                                             are not perfect spheres
 




memory's fabric









a fabric
 



                                             clouds
                                             and villages

                                             villages 
                                             and clouds
 





                                             clam rakes on long 
                                             island back when
 





                                             seagulls and 
                                             pebbled shore

                                             a single car 
                                             in the lot
 





                                             patch
                                             something torn

                                             from memory’s 
                                             fabric
 





                                             the taste
                                             of those stones

                                             where we 
                                             grew up
 





                                             a true path
                                             sand tracked

                                             into and through 
                                             the house
 





                                             a beachcomber 
                                             outfits his house 
                                             in the rain
 





                                             I keep
                                             a clean house

                                             for invisible 
                                             guests
 

John Martone was born in Mineola NY. Most recently he has published Giovanni Pascoli: O Little One and Selected Poems (from Laertes Books) and a collection of short poems in Italian, In quel tempo available in print from him or online at https://www.scribd.com/document/509503341/In-quel-tempo

 
 

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