Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

Out by the railroad tracks
a man trims a blackberry bush,
and two houses over
another man works on his car.

The blackberry man, he makes
brrrrrrrrt, brrrrrrrrrrrt, brrt.
and the one with the car makes
trrrrrt-whh, trrt-whh, trrrrrrrt-whh.


A moon named Yennefer is out tonight.
She listens, quietly watching these men.
They do not make their sounds as one, she notes.
Instead, they alternate
                                  between brrt, brrrrrrrrrrrt
and trrt-whh, trrrrrrrt-whh.


The blackberry man doggedly cuts
branch after branch. The car man, he—
well, a moon hasn't the foggiest
what a man can do to a car,

or what a man
can do for a man.
brrrrrrrrt (the one calls)
             trrrrrrrt-whh (the other responds)


They are so lovely, she thinks. But moons, they
speak only in femme. Yennefer (who, had
flunked Man 101) thinks she can make out—
                         brrrrrrrrt (Could you love me?)
trrrrrrrt-whh (I do love you, dear.)
Yet neither can hear.


The full moon watches
quietly, brightly—
as the tired blackberry man
in the dusk tidies his blade,

puts it away, disappears.
Soon, Yennefer can hear
the air wrench's last moan—trrrrrt-whh.
And now she's alone.