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    The Secret Life of Moles
    The Secret Life of Moles
    The Secret Life of Moles
    Ebook82 pages33 minutes

    The Secret Life of Moles

    By P. V. LeForge

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This is the book that launched the career of award-winning poet P. V. LeForge. Serious and quirky at the same time, these poems will transport you into realms that you were never sure--but always hoped--really existed. Includes the underground classic "Anting."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Bay Books
    Release dateApr 4, 2011
    ISBN9781458198488
    The Secret Life of Moles
    Author

    P. V. LeForge

    P. V. LeForge lives on a horse farm in north Florida with his wife Sara Warner, who is a dressage rider and trainer. Their stable includes Fabayoso, who was Southeastern Regional Stallion Champion, and his colt Freester, who was Reserve Champion USDF Horse of the Year in 2011.LeForge is also an e-book formatter who can be found on Mark's List. He enjoys formatting Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, and Drama.LeForge's other books of poetry and fiction can be obtained in ebook and paperback at most on-line book outlets. In addition to writing and doing farm chores, he enjoys songwriting and target archery.

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      Book preview

      The Secret Life of Moles - P. V. LeForge

      Anting

      When I was 7, I peeked

      through a curtain

      and watched my mother

      placing ants on her clothes

      to crawl up her sleeves

      and across her bare, painted feet.

      I saw her put them down her blouse

      and smile.

      We had a thick slatboard fence

      around our back yard

      so neighbors couldn’t watch

      as my mother held out her arms

      and preened like a sparrow

      As the years passed

      I tried to ignore those

      moving freckles, to pass them off

      as little ink stains

      or floating cinders

      come to rest.

      She never spoke to me about the ants

      and I never asked.

      For parties, Mother would put up

      her hair and don a long, silky gown

      but I’d still imagine those little tunnelings

      as they made their winding way

      up the back of her neck

      and into her beehive,

      loaded with winter provisions.

      I remember that drugged-sensual smile

      with which she served the hors d’oeuvres.

      She was always picking lint from her dress,

      hitching up her slip, scratching a swollen ankle

      with the tip of a high-heeled shoe.

      Upstairs when she tucked me in

      she would pat that bouffant to sleep

      and rejoin her guests.

      I’m in another city now.

      I don’t know if my mother

      still dances with the ants,

      but lately, I’ve observed

      long lines of black workers

      inching up my fingers like travelers

      who know their way.

      At first I was appalled

      and flicked them off my skin

      and out of my apartment.

      But that simple touch

      was tantalizing.

      I wanted more.

      It’s a vice, I know,

      but once a month, sometimes twice,

      I drive out to an empty field

      bare my skin to the sun,

      and spill little tracks of honey

      down my arms and toes.

      With a drop on each nipple

      and behind my ears,

      I let them have their way with me.

      Climbing the Slope

      I follow my Sherpa

      across the white rocks

      of the mountain pass.

      Ice sticks in my beard

      and I tell him I want to go back.

      (He knows no English;

      I know nothing else

      and soon, this too falls away

      like crumbling shale.)

      I’m a stumbler here

      a thick-parka’d man

      longing for nakedness

      and the sea.

      My guide stops—wants for me

      with llama eyes

      that tell me

      from here on

      I’m on my own.

      He motions me up

      to that dim peak

      up the slope

      to that frozen fire,

      where the boiling point of blood

      is low,

      and the rest of the world

      is a valley to look out on.

      The Groom

      I

      A breathy wind

      whispers through the stable;

      hot, like the breath of someone who drinks;

      like my breath

      on prickly Sunday mornings.

      Weekdays, like today,

      I come here to feed the horses

      and feel their coats and muscles

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