A poem in which the poet wears a red dress for the apocalypse or whatever

Elegy for the Harvest

I stand in the field of cut corn in a long red dress

On the map rows and rows of nothing and a bright push pin

Here

trying to enact what they mean when they say Let’s cross over

If I write about the butterfly you’ll think I want to be one But who are you?

In Chagall’s Wheatfield on a Summer’s Afternoon

it seems there are two choices

You in a row boat Or you with a scythe in tall wheat

But I guess you could be sun or grain

I suppose you could also be water

Let’s stand

at the edge of the ocean and look out at how it began Before

there were rows and rows of nothing

there were rows and rows of nothing

And now so many flames

atop the cakes some birthday but mostly powder

What do you wish?

I will whisper Baby and you will know

it means I want you with me

now as this whole thing goes up fast Like

it was never really here to begin with

and we mourn what?

///

You read here about why I’m posting drafts of poems online again, and you can find the growing collection of them here.