Skip to content
Menu

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.

If you like Image, you’ll love ImageUpdate.

Subscribe to our free newsletter here:


Pin It on Pinterest