Fresno, California 1986

For four years I have been gnashing over
the bitterness of almonds.
You know: that Fresno morning
in the cold grove, after we had stuffed ourselves
on the unripe nuts.
Our mouths met in a kiss
limed in acrid surprise.

I have been combing metaphors
for what I thought was lyrical.
Some moments are epiphanous.
Some cast themselves
in harder lines.

That was the morning when we saw
the cow lying bloated in a field,
its four legs, stiff as clothespins,
pointed toward heaven.
The other cows gave it a wide berth,
settled across the yard,
silently munching old grass.

That odd death—
I had thought to exclude it—
is somehow fitting,
like the rain-soaked almond husks
decaying, collapsing when our thumbs
pushed through them,
or the clean white teeth
of the almond meat.