!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>The Infernal Regions by Aaron Baker/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>The Infernal Regions/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 class=”author”>by Aaron Baker/h2> div id=”content”> p>Relax. No more the thinness of ceremony./p> p>Largemouth bass at the bottom of Kapowsin Lake/p> p>grow still as his thoughts. No swish and silt,/p> p>no father and flail. And once perfectly still, they grow/p> p>even stiller. Nothing’s wasted, says the Lord of the Underworld./p> p>Stillness is economy, and economy exchange./p> p>While he could still speak, my father asked,/p> p>“How should I pray for you?”/p> p>The curled buds of the bracken fern form/p> p>a forest of question marks./p> p>____/p> p>The backhoe operator shuts it down, raises two fingers/p> p>towards me and walks off in the rain. Dad’s settled/p> p>in for the ride, easy now in his pressed suit/p> p>and polished shoes. Heavy drops dimple/p> p>the freshly turned dirt. Rainbows of oil in the puddles./p> p>What’s left is centuries of silence. Such perfect/p> p>repose. And potato salad back at the potluck./p> p>____/p> p>Should we look for Orpheus among the living?/p> p>Should we look for Orpheus among the dead?/p> p>Father of riches. Seed the soil, smelt the ore./p> p>We’ve put on our workboots. We’ve crossed into/p> p>mythology, crossed over. In the underworld,/p> p>grief is poor currency. Beneath the camus prairies,/p> p>the second-growth Douglas fir and three bodies/p> p>of water, an Atlas of darkness shoulders a/p> p>weightless world of light. In the underworld, grief is/p> p>the only currency, and music after prayers./p> p>Said Archimedes, “With a long-enough lever/p> p>and a place to stand, I will move the earth.”/p>/div> p>br /> br> /body> /html>
