Between the harvesting and sowing:
the stubble burn. Embers recycled
from a dying fire; the promising scent
of charred straw. Cinders inextinguishable
as newfound desire. The calendar plan
that out of the slag a new upright row
might spring: Lazarus flowers, roses
of Jericho. All this to call me home.
As if to dress me in a penitent’s
sackcloth, when for decades –
even now – I would have come
on my knees: a girl in love with
high relief; stained-glass mysteries;
the lightness and the weight
of your hanging figure; the promise of one
love and end of days. Who else could have
sown, then seeded, this divide? Who else left
this shadowy thumb print between my eyes?
Copyright © 2020 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
Published in Iris Literary Journal.
Author's website: www.mbmclatchey.com