Pastoral

 The shepherd rests peacefully among his flock,

their white cloaks like the clouds of heaven

shining under the abundant stars of the night,

a bottle of rum spilled at his side,

thunderous snores keeping the wolves at bay.

 

His infant son, shrieking with colic,

is held by his haggard mother,

too exhausted to soothe him,

kept awake night after damned night

by this emblem of the last five minutes of intimacy

shared with her apathetic husband.

 

In the morning, the rolling hills will bring the tax man,

hills that make the road to market near impossible to traverse,

that bring the horses to the brink,

with bulging eyes, raspy snorts, and frothing nostrils,

hills that hide bandits,

golden hills,

not the color of wealth or glory

but of piss and drought.

 

He will give them one month to pay up

before sheriff comes to take their land.

 

The air carries the heavy scent of the shit of livestock

the hidden corpses of rats

rotting dreams.

 

The air lifts the jets overhead,

shining serpents blocking their cries

from the ears of god,

filled with perfumed businessmen

with clean fingernails

snoozing with their earplugs and neck pillows.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – November, 2018)

Another poem from my collection of cheesy, Romantic cliché poems, this one is a twist on the classic pastoral. Instead of glorifying that lifestyle, I wanted to imagine all of the pains and anxieties that come with living off the grid and living off the land.