Jordan Ranft

Poem to be read while in a fist fight at the farmer’s market

Rain was unexpected, though not unwelcome—
crystal knuckles pit-patting on the canvas stalls.  
This yellow squash, now the squash of vengeance;

red pepper hummus, now the spread of wrath. 
For days, a band of teachers huddled in a damp garage
and practiced playing songs. Now they halt halfway 

through Stairway to Heaven, standing–gawking 
—beneath the gazebo’s shingled roof. 
Listen, the cymbals are hissing still.  

Moments crease, and in their creasing, gather 
strange quiets. A quiet bunches like silk 
stuffed into a pipe. You assume time is smooth, 

rotates from the hips, continues beyond 
a point of impact. The waves of every song,
out there, scratching the underside of stars. 

You swing like a shovel. He moves like the hands 
on a watch. A blonde child pinches, gently, 
a tired wasp between two fingers, and lifts it from a puddle 

at the fountain’s rusted feet. She can’t say why, 
but she must present this creature to her mother. 
Soon, cool winds will tumble from the coast. 

Days shorten. The concourse will empty until spring.
Drive your knee into his crotch while he’s distracted,
for a moment, by the biggest pumpkin he’s ever seen.

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Jordan Ranft lives in Northern California, where he works as a therapist and writes for his local paper. He writes poetry and non-fiction. His poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and have been published in Boulevard, Passages North, Frontier Poetry, and elsewhere. He is the author of the chapbook Said the Worms (Wrong Publishing) and has another one forthcoming called We’ve Been Trying to Reach You (Game Over Books). He is an associate poetry editor at Iron Horse Literary Review.