Iliad
In this neighborhood, only a pair
of backyard gardens remain, small
right-angled plots where tomato plants,
their leaves attacked by caterpillars
common to our county, secrete
a small, necessary bribe to wasps,
who, they trust, remember its odor
promises a haven for their eggs,
worm bodies in which incubation
is ideal, where the newly hatched
are safe to cycle quickly into swarms
that devour the plants’ invaders.
Which, over time, is how gardeners
discovered that adaptation is key,
the caterpillars developing secretions
of their own, ones designed to smother
the vigilant pores of those leaves,
muffling their fragrant cries for help.
The wasps, indifferent, fly elsewhere
for nesting while the worms advance
to the fruit itself, entering that city
of sweetness where there is feasting.
And yes, an overstatement, but
aren’t iliads so universal they fit
into every canon? Don’t we love
the timelessness of war stories
in which outsmarting the besieged
is how winning thrives? Listen,
beauty is always there to spoil,
taking the very thing the myths
declare heavenly, all those who
died miserably forgotten during
the storied celebrations where
appetites are brilliantly sated.
Unless the gardeners take notice.
Unless, like gods, they intervene.
Gary Fincke's poetry collections have won what is now the Wheeler Prize (Ohio State), the Wheelbarrow Books Prize (Michigan State), The Stephen F. Austin Prize, the Jacar Press Prize, and the Arkansas Poetry Prize. Read more.