eels and old men

The bully-boys are fascinated by the green ooze in the river. 

On Saturdays, mean boys wade out into the river, 

when the ooze of the city is released in the water. 

The boys are covered in green. It does not wash off. 

This is one of two rituals that bring them from boyhood to manhood, 

from cruelty to kindness and understanding. 

The second ritual happens on Sundays, when the older men stab 

the boys with long, thin knives, razor-sharp. The more cruel the boy, 

the more times he is cut. Some do not survive. 

So it is that the bully-boys are fascinated by the green ooze in the river. 

For some, death follows, and the others live on as wounded men, 

trying hard to heal. Their lives are painful, yes, 

but they have some meaning at last.

james lee jobe

“Disappoint other people with your no; don’t disappoint yourself with a yes you’ll later resent.”

Holly Whitaker, Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol

Long days when Rhonda didn't smile even once. 

A river, hidden by a single grain of rice, 

provides water for the countryside. 

Thank god for the river. 

Fresh-water eels and old men with long beards live there. 

(Part of me wants to write that they die there.) 

Who has time for nonsense anymore? Who doesn't? 

The herb garden, hidden by design, waits deep in the valley. 

Elm trees have stories that they rarely share. 

In the shade of the elms, the valley looks especially nice 

in the daytime. And also at night, the valley, the river, 

and the garden look beautiful from the shadows. 

A lot of life is lived in the shadows. 

Rhonda looks especially sad as she holds her flowers. 

The lines of her face are like runways at an airport 

where no planes ever take off or land. 

(Part of me pictures her death, dying alone.)

She keeps track of time with a sundial, 

which is a useless thing at night. 

Is it midnight yet? Rhonda doesn't know. 

Lifting the grain of rice she finds the river. 

Thank god for the river. 

And beneath the elm trees she finds the garden 

of herbs, the smell of the sage and the rosemary 

and the lavender, the old men, the eels.

james lee jobe

link: number four, a poem by Asiya Wadud

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