Nod Farm

Paul Westermeyer

Beware the pear tree in my yard,
for Abe is buried there.
He died about a month ago
in his mattress square.


He was a farmer, in his time,
before he grew too old.
I was his keeper, for a time,
until his blood ran cold.


He was quite healthy up until
he choked on what he chewed.
It was solely I to watch him die,
for I had served his food.


We sold my brother’s valuables,
content for half their worth.
Beneath the tree, lies his corpse;
roots hide his lifeless girth.


I picked a moldy pear today;
It really hit the spot.
I didn’t really mind the taste
of a little rot.

Euphemism Campus Box 4240 Illinois State University, Normal, IL 61790-4240