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.