Two mornings after declaring, glass
of wine raised in firelight, that I would not write
any more poems about my father,
I slide open the barn door, squat down
to replace the three-decade worn tines
of the Troy-Bilt M8, the 8 for eight
horsepower, he bought with I still don’t know
what money. I tilt the tiller forward.
It looks bowed in prayer. Each tine, hardened
steel, hooked right or left like the business
end of a scythe, comes off with the loosening
of two bolts, falls and clatters, ringing
briefly on the ground. I think I’ll remember but
quickly lose the tricky offset pattern—sixteen
blades in four opposing gangs of four, pointing
toward and away from each other by turns:
by the time I have them all replaced, locknuts
cranked down hard, anticipating
years, the stall is filled with sun, and the new
tines gleam. I groan to stand, and exclaim
unthinkingly, crymunintlees, startling myself
with a word my father used to say, its exact
meaning I never thought to ask
—from Augur