The Working of the Land

Giggling children hold hands, rush along in a winding whip, hair stuck to hot brows, pink

tongues like the innocent stamens of flowers, like the chameleon’s tail, like the eye stalks of

snails, the mother’s burning flesh smothers the dance, legs buckling and blistered feet, the

confused children turn their faces to her, their jaws working and they’re hungry, but the mother’s

breasts make poisoned milk; she is the grass, they have drilled her green body until a crack

opened and roots entangle the children, they rake them with their bitten fingers, it’s dark and

empty and smells like coal, like oil; oh, mother earth pierced by many losses, her children have

become flaming ghosts and the crack closes up like a drugged mother turning over and whatever

animals are left litter the bare land and the coughing of children below becomes the earth’s new

music.