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The Second Beautiful Harvest

I wake in the golden belly of this abode
and sense some diurnal grace at work.
I take my body to the fall, to bathe
and anoint my genitals with shea.
I have made my journey to the cold hills
to commune with my people there.
I come for the second beautiful harvest
and have waited long to look into its eye.
The harvest hosts libations, the meal
and my desire—so I drink the deep
heady liquid of its languid stare, under
the hum of many voices: burgeoning
friendships and reunion in the low light.
I break into the soft weirdness of injera
and dip my fingers into the meat stew,
to celebrate the glory of the kings.
The clear splendor of the serving boy,
his slow blink as of a camel, does not
distract me—here to reap but seduced
by the second beautiful harvest.

Dante Micheaux is author of Circus (Indolent Books, 2018), which won the Four Quartets Prize from the Poetry Society of America

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Themes

About this Poem

“This poem is only slightly inscrutable but full of ‘carnal energy,’ as another poet put it. At the time of its composition, I was traveling, not in my home—hence, ‘this abode.’ What I can say is that the title is a loose translation of someone’s name.”
—Dante Micheaux

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More by this poet

Pinyan

The plod of the trespassers
on wet turf,
in the sinking dark,
marked their path,
plan, toward the barn
where it slept—

the stallion, resting
from its thoroughbred
charge, hungry for oats,
hay
-nested, silent
save the hot breath
of its nostrils.

Dante Micheaux

2010

Offa’s Legacy

Empire dwindled to tetrarchy, reliant, as an exotic concubine,
on foreign common wealth. The roads rampant with
painted men, too—the whole kingdom the brunt of
Lundenwic’s folly.

The sovereign silent and ceremonious, though powers rise
at the choosing of the Garter, dazzles the opening
of Parliament in borrowed jewels.

I fed the son of Offa Rex, a staggeringly-gifted child, the food
of slaves and his belly had never been so full.

Dante Micheaux

2018

Goliath

When I asked Saul for a warrior, I had no idea it would be you.
I underestimated your anger in the marketplace. I scorned you

because you were beautiful and softer than the whores of Gath,
a look from which I could not turn or face. I scorned you

as Ishbi-benob watched, my brother with his lack of judgment,
and all the others who haunt that space. I scorned you

after a week of battles, the steady beat of marching and shrill
ram’s horn in my ear. Since I could not chase, I scorned you.

Dante Micheaux

2010

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The Second Beautiful Harvest

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