Light in the Fig Root
I’ve learned that figs hold life
like a vein; imperfect symmetry
when a tiny blade splits it in two.
I watch you pull raw flesh with
your teeth, hold fuchsia seeds on
your tongue, skin coming apart
in your hands. Like all things,
there are layers— but it is never
the outer one we’re searching for.
Hands of a Sun Clock
We sat Indian style
on a plot of land that stretched for miles
over Pennsylvania plane
pulling rusted nails from barn wood—
one by one by one,
sweat sliding down our spines,
dry hay imprinting into the back of our thighs.
He tucked straw into my hair,
white tees soaked in heat, our
mouths finding water in the drought.
He kneaded hands into my skin as if
it was a field that needed working. We
lay under the withering roof waiting for night,
for our bodies to be cool to the touch,
for Katydids to whisper, You outran the sun.