David Hargreaves
Born in Detroit, David Hargreaves is a long-time resident of Oregon, and a poet, translator, and linguist by profession. Most recently, his translation of Chittadhar Hrḍaya’s “River,” from Nepal Bhasa, the endangered, ancestral language of the Kathmandu Valley, appeared in the anthology River Poems (Everyman’s Library Pocket Poet Series, 2022). Other poems appear in a wide variety of journals, including American Journal of PoetryPassages North, Naugatuck River ReviewNorth Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere. 



Passing Time at Coffin Butte Landfill 


We are gathered here
                                          to dump a friend
of a friend’s 
cat-pissed couch—
                                     a drinker, word is
his liver gave out—
                         and his broken dresser, soiled clothes, 
                         mildewed boxes
                                      full of sketch books, 
                                                                     a life’s worth of life
drawing, 
                 plus his pecker-track stained mattress, 
                 my friend wisecracks, 
                                                             then tacts, 
but art endures, 
one of his woodcuts
hangs in the Guggenheim. 
                                                     True.
Still, a landfill ode, 
                                        if honest, should honor 
impermanence
in all things. Granted
                                           some last longer—Styrofoam,
disposable diapers—
                                      than others—Tibetan monk,
his gilded skull, 
now a vessel for drinking chaang.
                                                               But time respects nothing; 
we too are things, like banjos,
coffee pots, wedding rings—
                             future artifacts excavated, 
                                                                                 displayed under glass. 
My friend backs the trailer 
                                                    to the edge of the pit. 
                                                                                         I survey the pastoral
scene beyond the landfill, new mown hay, 
                                                                              then reach down,
unchaining the tailgate, gagging 
on the stench of August.


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