Homestead

We eat land like cows

sucking a tit

relieving our bladders.

When earth falls away into cold slate waters,

the children forget their inside voices

and scream.

 

My heart is a plot of land

don’t we love owning the patches of each other?

Spots on the back of a neck you’ll never see,

red patches, earth

mapping from above

the homestead

I stick my fingers in to.

Move the varicose veins pulsing,

fan the lung fibers branching,

churn up the underair.

 

Dreams keep telling me to fall

asleep between their legs

where fence posts no longer lie

past Amish grasses, plain life.

I stand on the water’s edge,

take off my skin,

scatter seeds

where they say most have drowned.

 

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