Demeter, after

Each farmer loses something of the harvest;

each has planted rows too near the forest.

I’ve lost myself in losing her.

The torch is cast aside and smolders.

I return now, after years, to work the earth

as one returns to sex: Not to sow. To rehearse.

To feel the cold dirt pressed against the wrist.

“Demeter, after” is reprinted from Making the New Lamb Take (2007) by permission of Sarabande Books.