Plow and reaper

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And when I slide back in, your arms wind over me,
thin shadows tendril into sleep.

Your legs the stick limbs of crickets perched in the white field
or long as the deep rooted Oak we left behind.

Your hips doubling, flutter. The nerves when we first
moved, first gave birth. A cluster of clouds

hold tight to what’s inside, a cluster of petals, a blush.
I married you knowing

I’m a fretter, not knowing we would
marry this earth. Or that sometimes even with the lamp lit

it could be too dark for anything but touch. There’s nothing
to stop a cloud without rain. Your air

enfolds me in dark shuddering wings. There’s nothing
to stop the solace of your hands. Palm to gritty palm,

yank me away from worry.
Your slip and breasts engulfed in a dusty plume of powder,

I’m almost there. Hover closer, still.
Anchor me from thinking what could.

Eating Thistle

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—for the wounding or provocation

for this is my thistle shed for thee

o’er amber shards of tumbleweed,

preserve thy body and soul. Good boys and girls

best not gulp, keep pace by the flickering

fixtures. Our bellies punish, the memory of a meal—

thistle flung far: palms of hungry children, or barbs.