The Earthworm Farmer #2

[three fountains retirement center]

Their skin.
It is like butcherpaper.
Crinkled and rough, it folds and droops
over old driftwood bones that grind together.

They sit in their evening chairs.
Their faces stretch across rawbone hollowness
and their hands lay one on top of the other
like still lovers.

Outside, they are tremulous and unstable
and the wind whittles through all the perforations
in their bodies, whistling bygone tunes;
they are brittle blue prariegrass.

I don't know
what scares me most about them.
Their steeltoed teeth? Their hookworm fingers?
Their sulfur eyes or the coldness of their whalebellies?

To think.
How flutterflitting this tightness of our bolts is.
Gummy-jawed and broken, I can't look at them.
Because, already, their paperiness is spreading.

To begin...I really like this. I really like the images in this poem...you're always very good with imagery and this was no disappointment. But by the end, I think, it's almost too much...I feel like you've said a lot of words, but not quite as much meaning, at least until the last line--and I'm not a big fan of the last line, but I'll go into that later.

Their skin.
It is like butcherpaper.
Crinkled and rough, it folds and droops
over old driftwood bones that grind together.

I work at an old folks' home and this is at the same time an accurate and an eloquent description of what old people look like. However, I would revise:
Skin like butcherpaper.
Crinkled and rough, it folds
over old driftwood bones
that grind together.
I think the two pieces describing skin are awkward the way you've put them...it's not that the first is a fragment (obviously, because it's still a fragment in my revision) but because of the rhythm.

They sit in their evening chairs.
Their faces stretch across rawbone hollowness
and their hands lay one on top of the other
like still lovers.

I like the way that "evening chairs" can be interpreted literally as well as metaphorically--i.e. "evening" being the end of life as well as the end of the day. I'm not sure about "rawbone hollowness"...this description of their faces doesn't seem to be adding much to the poem, especially because we get the sense of hollowness/brittleness from the next stanza, and also it's the second time you've said "bone", which threw me off.
But the last two lines = YES. That is excellent.

Outside, they are tremulous and unstable
and the wind whittles through all the perforations
in their bodies, whistling bygone tunes;
they are brittle blue prariegrass.

I'm not quite sure why you prefaced this stanza with "Outside" because you have already been describing their outside appearances...there isn't any change to be noted.
Overall I'm not a huge fan of this stanza. It's good description but it's like too much icing on the cake. I think it's unnecessary.

I don't know
what scares me most about them.
Their steeltoed teeth? Their hookworm fingers?
Their sulfur eyes or the coldness of their whalebellies?

I'm tempted to take out the question marks, so it would look like this:
I don't know
what scares me most about them:
Their steeltoed teeth. Their hookworm fingers.
Their sulfur eyes or the coldness of their whalebellies.
I'm also not a huge fan of the last two sentences. I like "steeltoed teeth" a lot but "hookworm fingers" and "sulfur eyes blah blah" don't really strike my interest.

Now, see, that was four stanzas of description. That's a LOT. It's all really good, but it's just too much. It begins to drag.

To think.
How flutterflitting this tightness of our bolts is.
Gummy-jawed and broken, I can't look at them.
Because, already, their paperiness is spreading.

Even though I changed the first stanza, I like the way the first line here mimics the opening line.
The second line here stumps me. Enlighten me as to the meaning of "flutterflitting"...if it's a word you made up/spliced from "flutter" and "flitter," then I can guess pretty well, but I still look at it and I'm thinking..."Um. If you say so."
The third line implies that the speaker is "gummy-jawed and broken." Though I think you mean the old folks to be described as "gummy-jawed and broken," that certainly makes for some interesting analysis...

Okay. On the last line. I do not like "paperiness." I do not like it one bit. I'm all for making up words but that's just awkward. And the last line sounds so...flat. So deliberately conclusive. I don't want to be told, "This is the end, and here's your meaning," I want to be left hanging! Comfortably hanging, not in danger of falling, but not too stable either. If that makes any sense.

Best of luck!
-Colleen

Hello, Kylan!

I don't think I've ready any of your poetry before, but I've seen a few stories. I really like this poem, all the description, the metaphors. The first stanza is definitely my favorite, but a line in the the third confused me a little.

What's 'brittle blue prairiegrass'? And how does that relate to old people? It makes me think of dry grass, which it might be. But you already said:

Outside, they are tremulous and unstable

and the wind whittles through all the perforations

Which to me already tells us that's they're dry and brittle and fragile. Why say it again?

And going to a line of the last stanza...

To think.

How flutterflitting this tightness of our bolts is.

I can't get past that word! Ah! Flutterflitting? I don't know, I just flat out don't like it... I'm even sure how to explain it. The rest of the stanza, on the other hand (especially the last line), I did like. ^^

I really hope to see more work from you! PM me if anything comes up, 'kay?

-kittykat