Staring at the sun, I could imagine the whole world
is ending. Dull prick of light through the frosted
window of the air. Tule fog laid so thickly across
the valley’s floor that even the light is afraid
to move too quickly through it. Like fresh white sheets
in horror movie wind. Sometimes, even your fingertips
could get lost in the stuff. Mist severing your arms
into mystery. One year, more than 100 cars crumpled
into each other under its weight & were still invisible
without the red ghosts of road flares surrounding them.
It’s a careful balance. Now that the fog is vanishing,
as the lakes and rivers go dry, row-after-row of fruits
bake rotten on their branch & vine. But back then,
there were no worries but the bottom line & workers
can’t be exploited on the featureless landscape that
fog makes of their sight. So, the farmers primed
sound cannons in the centers of their fields & burst
the mist back into rain. Left pockets of sky bruised
blue with the noise. I’m certain this was a crime,
but pockets needed filled. Families fed. Years later
when I learned it was our cash crop, pomegranates,
that gave the grenade its name, this made a perfect
kind of sense. To make a meal from a weapon. Thunder
unhooked from the sky. How on the worst mornings,
the nearest pomegranates rattled until burst invisibly.
Honeyed hemorrhage. Every bird for miles, red fruit
pulped & abandoned by a child’s hand. Their organs
burst seeds, scarlet sugar spilling from their beaks.
—torrin a. greathouse (Blackbird)