crows & locusts.

The fields are bleeding.
It's been seven years, they say.
The foxes ran through and set the wheat on fire
after the ruling and
the tribes melted into their armor.
I drop this pottery in the dust
by my feet, and it breaks and scatters
before I can gather the blue-hewn chips into
neat, small piles with my hands. The
burnt powder on my forearms
was always red and dark, ready
for hotter deserts or a more sacred
harvest, so I will stand under this tree
even if this tree doesn't want me.
          The women are still there with their baskets.
You told me my hair was like rain
or looked like I had stolen something
in the afternoon light, and I vended
the rocks you left just so you'd tell me
to stop. Even so, you unhitched
the smoke-dried knots and pulled
down the fastened arches between the mounts.
Everything was flooded then.
Now, we walk on brittle land
and crack whips without thinking.

The fire is coming down.



"I could have stretched forth My hand and stricken you...
and you would have been effaced from this earth.
Nevertheless I have spared you for this purpose in order
to show you My power..."
          Exodus 9:15-16