Nibbling a Grain of Barely
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I don’t want any clues.
OK. Maybe just one.

It doesn’t need to be the kind that resounds
in my head, but don’t make it the faintest echo
either. Don’t give it in a roundabout way,
and don’t make it come from the third
or fourth shout from a crow. And please, don’t
make it a gate with seven locks.

Is it the forgotten fishing line tangled in the tree
by the Wissahickon Creek? Is it the old woman sweeping
outside the restaurant that’s been in her family
for three generations? Will I know it
if it bumps up against me? Will it be succinct?
Will it have a mouth and claws?

You once told me you’ve seen grass swaying
in the sea, and I won’t bother asking
how you managed that since you live on land,
but is that somehow the clue?

You tell me the universe has never been veiled, yet
you tell me you’ve seen a hare leaping from cloud
to cloud, and that you’ve eaten brewer’s grain
and hops from a sealed, metal grain bin.
But where does that leave me?

I know you think silent sermons are best,
but I’m not interested in wisdom. Listen, it’s just
that my heart is swarmed with questions,
and I’m tired, my soul aches, my spirit
hasn’t gone out in days. Wait–

wait, wait, wait—that’s it, isn’t it? The longing–
the longing is the clue. I got it, didn’t I? I got it.
I see you smiling, nibbling a grain of barely, I see
the glint in your obsidian eyes, I see you twitch your ear,
I see you disappear again into the corn field.