They gaze upon the
Cryptic list of seemingly
Asinine chores that
They do without thought,
Tasks that have become
Automatized
As if they were key-wound
Machines from days long gone
That would conceal a coin
Or write in cursive script.
Check one, check two,
But nothing for check today,
So the brothers quickly read
In fading light
Which activity they will
Pull me along to
As I stand in the frame
Of my wooden curtain
Listening to pigeons coo
In the attic above.
The younger and shorter
Pulls me out from the darkness
Into the buzzing light
To grab a metal drum,
Free of rust,
And a homemade cart
With two crooked wheels
And a handle for toting
Taller than he.
Bumping across the field
We reach a tire
Next to a trough of dirty water,
But beneath the tire
Lay a depth lined with
Spiraling rubber
And clumps of earth.
A metal bucket tied to
A blue string
Begins its descent into
The known unknown
Of what lays beneath
This patch of untilled soil.
Wet sounds and gurgles,
Heavier up than it was down.
Towards home we shuffle
In silence
Propping the cart on
The first step
To slide off
For the older brother to then
Carry to wherever it is
He carries the water
That I use to cleanse myself
Of another day.
Composed 06/21/2012
Author’s note: I learned how to fetch water with my family. We had a checklist of chores and activities to complete with our host families. My family didn’t really know this was the case, but they caught on eventually. Sometimes, they would go to the river to fill up their drums, but they were in possession of their own small well concealed behind weeds in an untilled lot that hosted the rusted old field tractor. I never went with them to the river.
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