Aidan Vanhoof

by Aidan Vanhoof


Turn off the stove.
Let it cool.
Let it sit still,
let it watch the 
olive grove
grow limbs
and morph into
a hedonist.

For love doesn't follow.

I stowed my seeds, 
violently ripped
manna from 
the pockets
of the man 
in the alleyway
playing his piano
and a tin can
with a force 
once unheard of;

as you did, lord,
to the dulled,
shimmering 
helmets
that once protected
my head.  

That set to
the tune of a 
lead pipe. 

Your wheat fields
wave at me, 
watching me
through my plane's 
milky glass panes.

And I meditate as
the olive grove's
old home is flooded
and its possessions
rendered the man's
shantytown dream.

He wandered into the home
and shook his head. He 
burned it down until its
flesh was made 
deep maroon
and black.

And he described to me
how it feels to weep
over a tin can's love.

I fear I'm the same
Alive for its own sake?
Am I?