after Eliot.
I have known the mornings, evenings,
and the heavy-set afternoons.
I measure out my life in a gaunt dog’s ribs,
counting the yowling cur’s bones under matted fur -
cinco, seis, siete, and into the barranca of
its angry abdomen. We are both beholden,
tied to the mare’s tail that has scoured the fields,
and what I want most now is to cut the stalks,
to work my hands raw with the storm-soaked corn husks,
kneading straw bellies full with harina
so that I might eat my own love song.
-
astationaryjew liked this
-
thumbswithhands liked this
-
anniemaggard posted this
