Prudence Arceneaux
223-6063
parcenea@austincc.edu

C. Prudence Arceneaux, a native Texan, is a poet who has taught at ACC since 1998. She earned a BA in English/ Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico, but even before finishing the degree realized "there's no place like home." Upon her return to Texas, she began work on an MFA in Creative Writing, which she received from the university formerly known as Southwest Texas State in 1998. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Limestone, Analecta, and African Voices.

Dirt

I am not a gardener, grubber of plants,
shifter of soil. My nails clean,
I stopped kneeling years before I reached
this age. If you ask, I can tell a food seed
from a pretty one. Clarify that TOMATO is a fruit.
Tell you: When red hibiscus sits crushed in your hand,
it smells of blood. The hammerhead worm
tosses its head wetly when cut with spade. A crooked
row means death for someone. Shit produces the best foundation.
A tree can live around the rot at its base, but dies
in the beauty of mistletoe. Poisoned grass returns as weeds,
mutates to flowers. Blue morning glories will cover your garden. 
Beautiful, but choke your roses.


All this I learned on my knees, from my father,
my teacher, beer in one hand, the other browner in dirt:

That the dog will follow and proof your work. That, here,
the frost will come back and kill your grapes,
no matter what. That squirrels stockpile.
even when there is no need.