(published in Deep South Magazine April 2014)


The harvest is bitter
Weeds that choke and prevent
Healthy growth have plagued her garden
Crowding out the good
With spider webs of undergrowth that strangulate
She sees no other way
But to flee this land
Stomping her boots into the toxic green leaves
In a final fit of impotent rage
The new land looks promising
Fecund, dark and moist
She has no idea that seeds from the old garden have stowed away
In the tiniest crevices of her shoes
In the impossible seems of her overalls
Even under the warm folds of her breasts
At harvest time she’ll curse the soil
And search the horizon again
For a new garden.



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