GRASSLAND
When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, it stitched me
together with grain.I am patient now; I am not damaged by waiting.
Languid as a coming rain, stalks
inch alongside my veins to the tips
of my fingers. A grassland has thirst,
so does a fire,
a cup,
noon,
the color of dough,so while I sleep the moon creeps
between my poised teeth
to flood me with moonwater.
When I speak, the scent
of lengthening wheat overwhelms me.
Shoots rise straight up
and don't droop as tears,
they don't fail like questions;
they get on with growing.I hold a handkerchief
over my mouth to veil the clover
and bees that tickle my throat
but the angel
who's due at my tent
won't catch me laughing.A kiss would do it.
One sprinkle of milkwhite salt
and I'll break like bread at your table.s a r a h s l o a t
f r a n k f u r t, g e r m a n y
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