This scarecrow I stitched with old patchy
sweaters and the trousers of my dead relatives.
I kept its mouth open so to stuff
it with discarded marbles I made memories playing
but now are a great burden upon me.
Each marble I slid through the mouth with great sorrow
but in hopes that at least they’ll have some purpose to fulfill,
and listen attentively as they clink colliding with their clan
at the bottom of the stomach.
It doesn’t say anything, the scarecrow,
but I imagine it popping marbles
with great joy as if they were its favorite sugar candies.
I made this up so it feels like a right thing to do.
I see a lifetime pass by
as I shove the last marbles in its mouth
that then I stitch with a thick thread
so tight it can’t be opened again,
but the liquid in my veins ache to believe
that these old sweaters and trousers
tear on the weight, and all marbles
tumble through the cracks,
and finally be free.
That this scarecrow didn’t have to be stitched in the first place.
That these marbles should’ve been thrown in the river long time ago.