where is the grief in the harvest after the land
has been sheared and after the vigils for rain
have ended now we must
tend to each other in ways we cannot tend
to ourselves I ask you to help
me push these walls outward and to hold
that line as I cut with sheer will the rusted
armatures lingering in my forsaken fields
such wreckages erected and half-erected
abandoned for other promises
and now the clean-up you’ve been brought to
for twenty years now like a secret cabin in a
secret wood with faded curtains and dishes
that remind us of childhood summers at an
aunt’s or grandparent’s house full
of anachronisms and inherited meanings
inhabited with small suitcases where I hid
my humiliations and my shame at not being
like anyone else sometimes
I dream of this cabin with my ghosts politely
knocking on the door asking through the windows
if it is time yet growing impatient insistent
and I wonder now that the harvest is over
and the light is dropping down in its golden bow
when will you invite me to your cabin to meet your
ghosts and to help unpack the suitcases when
I ask as if through a window.
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