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Poetry

I am going to lie down in the field,
grass a green halo over my head.

I’ll let the sun singe the peach,
my flesh, luxurious, ruined.

Let rain have its way with me
so I can feel my mother’s washcloth

on my face, hand I turned from.
Lord, soften the hard pit of my heart.

Excuse me, grass, for keeping
you in the dark while I lie here

considering what I will,
and will not say.

 


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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