Last updated on December 11th, 2019 at 05:26 pm
The farmer’s wife watches patiently
raising her pinkie while sipping tea
as the farmer’s ashes pour over me,
a stone marking the second loss of the year.
The baby came out feet-first
ready to walk in her mother’s shoes
but the glass slippers shattered
under the weight of her swollen pregnant feet.
Long before this moment
it was written in the sky—
as much choice in the matter
as she had in the weather,
though she always wished for rain.
It just wasn’t meant to be
so she sips her tea
watching her husband’s ashes cover the field,
burying the starving crops.
He turns into a scarecrow—
I don’t think he likes me.
He chews tobacco
And spits it at me.
I grew from him
I grew from me
This is where I need to be.
On this farm
next to the bones of the dog
who never learned to dig
for if he did
he would find those that came before:
graves marked only by crops.
The biggest secret is how temporary we are
numbers carved in stone
yet somehow we are so much more.
I swear that we were so much more.
Roses line my private sea
beautiful barbed wire to protect me.
Butterflies land on the fallen bee
every movement pushing me into the ground.
My hair grows green
to be recycled back into the Earth,
to be born once again.
I think this time I’ll be a tree
every leaf a memory.
In autumn they all fall—
We will all start again.
when I started
I placed the petals on each flower
and dipped them in the perfect colour.
I saved the sun inside a jar.
I painted the bees.
I once taught a parrot how to speak.
I weaved the grass under my feet;
every bit of soil passed through my fingers.
I planted and watered every weed.
My epitaph will be carved on a sunflower seed
in hopes that this time
life consumes me.
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