Warm Beer
Sometimes he gets banished to the woods
and so he goes, teenage limbs flung against trees
his curses butterflies buffeted by rage, weaving a haphazard path
back home to a father who smokes on the porch
and a mother who watches, watches.
A figure has clawed itself out
from under the earth, and lazes among the forest’s bloodless veins
brown with muddy afterbirth. It looks up as he approaches;
smiles, and the lines pressed into its bronzed face by centuries
deepen.
“What the hell are you?” he says. His legs jump with outrage.
His coltish heart wants to run, but the figure breathes
and the wind weaves its music through its wilted lungs
and he is still. He doesn’t have a choice.
Perhaps the light was less, when last the sun held
that face in its tawny fingers. Every peat-browned pore
is a marvel. He
doesn’t look away as he edges around the clearing
to the tree-stump where he keeps rations.
Tall blue cans. The cheap kind, from the gas station.
His father stockpiles them in a shed, doesn’t notice
when one or two go missing. He pulls one out
and pops the tab, flinching at the dry hiss. The figure’s
eyes are cat-bright; its loose limbs trusting. Curiosity
is written in the tilt of its head.
He takes a sip; it’s warm and hoppy and slightly sour.
He holds it out to the figure. Fingers close around the can
they look like time had poured mud in a mould.
It keeps its eyes on him
as it sniffs the beer. The mouth quirks; recognition, vague.
It takes a noisy gulp. He takes a step back
to perch on the tree-stump. It follows.
He shuffles a little to make room
even though the stump is really only big enough for one.
They sit side-by-side and pass the can
back and forth. His next sip
tastes like peat.
He looks at the hole the figure crawled out of
for a very long time. Well, not a long time, perhaps
if you know what a long time really is.
“Who put you in there?” he asks, motioning to the
raw earth.
The figure looks at him for a long moment. Then it wipes
the foam from its upper lip and belches. He laughs.
They take another sip.
Daisy Harris
Inspired by Hozier, Siobhan Dowd, Seamus Heaney and anyone else who’s ever written about bog bodies in a creepy but reverent way.
Daisy Harris Poetry 