His Labors

I cut bamboo and the leaves slipped through my skin. Cedar branches
grabbed and raked red lines
through my arms.

Thorns pierced my wrists and hands. I burned, hauling brush across the lawn, 

torn by vines, and licked

by poison ivy.

Dirt crouched under my fingernails and blisters formed on my palms. My hands
were chewed by stones, then sweat
dripped from my nose.

I shoveled clay and carried rocks. My blisters opened. Blood smeared
on my tools. The open wounds filled
with grit.

My eyes cried saw dust. Mosquitoes fed on me. Gnats stuck to my flesh
by the Texas Summer-drawn sweat. My
bones ached, ground, and snapped.

By day's end, my wounds stung, my skin pulled taut. I cooled in the shower,
dried on the balcony, then slept
on the wooden floor.