a poor harvest
of winter wheat . . .
still, I grind the grain
on the old stone wheel
then sow the fields again
It’s morning. Nails protrude through loose floorboards, throw rugs lie threadbare. Like ghosts, curtains hang over shuttered windows. A steady drip from the kitchen faucet echoes down the hall. The closet door is off its hinges.
The other side of the bed is empty, just as it’s been every morning for the past three years. But I’ve had enough. I get up, throw open the window, pick up my hammer, and start pounding the floor.
Atlas Poetica: 39
