I lie on the ground, my body fitting
a field’s small hollows. Autumn wraps
yellow around my shoulders, lightly ties
my calves and thighs. The sun slides by
like a peach left to bruise and darken.
Moaning, whooping, a tractor rips
coiled guts of dirt. Haven’t I seen
a doctor open a human body? Didn’t she
reach in to cut out the heart? Jays
swerve and jeer. The heart voyaged
by plane, safe in a red and white cooler.
It lives again in a new body. Yellow
seizes the trees; leaves lighten and
wither. I watch a citrus mite drink
black ink till only his legs are red. He
walks off my notebook, gone in the grass.
Barbara Daniels’ book Rose Fever was published by WordTech Press and chapbooks Black Sails, Quinn & Marie, and Moon Kitchen by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere. She received three fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
© 2019, Barbara Daniels