Hyacinths

by VIRGIL RENFROE

Rare are the responses we are waiting for. But, I love the way a hyacinth sounds, salt engine banging underneath its stalk. Turn a hyacinth upside down nothing much happens. Whip a hyacinth around with great velocity until g-forces grab its innards, though, and out comes what makes the yard taste better. Vastly important, as the unsuspecting heart so often snagged by the suspect lover must get good at eating dirt. Much that seems whole is in pieces. In a basement bar in Greensboro my friend Matt’s mouth opened up like a vortex in reverse and out came all the playground sand and Fay and Marcus and myself were three bottle rockets tied together and simultaneously lit. Everyone awaited the boom. Instead we live in different towns. Ask your refrigerator for the secret all it does is hand you some milk.

VIRGIL RENFROE writes and teaches in Greensboro, NC. Recent poems appear in Rialto, Forklift, Ohio and Sixth Finch.