Poetry
To Take the Curse off the Fields
Julie Platt
You gash the apple’s month-old
husk against the shovel
edge, then fling
the clotted juice
on the foot of the stalk.
You thought she would move
like silk, full of water,
but she is dry as a headlight across wheat.
Her hands cross and cross
above the remaindered corn. It shivers
a little.
You wait, toss pebbles at the road.
You will wait a long time for her.