Poem by Deborah Diemont

The Wind
El hambre viene, el hombre se va. . . .
                                     —Manu Chao

If hunger comes, then the man must go,
an army-green pack on his sweat-slick back.
He'll move with coyotes and not be attacked--
this fanciful reaper, whose father has sown

scattered oats. When the plants fail to grow,
when there's no land to plant, when the sack
has been emptied, the dreamer makes tracks
with hooves like a goat's, playing piccolo--

and, if you listen, a small violin.
When hunger comes, there's a tremulous show.
He'll balance the tightrope—we'll feel vertigo--
and land, swimmingly, on the head of a pin.

​But if he takes our bounty, he must go.
Let him sing, let him row on the wind.

*This poem originally appeared in Stone Canoe online and is in my sonnet collection, Diverting Angels.

Deborah Diemont’s three books of poetry from Dos Madres Press are: Wanderer, Diverting Angels and The Charmed House. Her work has appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including The Evansville Review, The Texas Review and The Yale Review. She lives in Syracuse, New York.