National Poetry Month--Day 3
Today's poet is V. Penelope Pelizzon:
my mother calls the golden fist
clenched above the rye stubs, half-gloved in smoke haze
over our burning fields.
Mine remains the smaller hand. No blood yet,
my bones not begun reaching for a woman's height
while her body, digging
late onions from the frost-line at the garden's
ashen foot, seems strong as if my birth
had never broken her.
Three rabbits, bold after a summer of plenty,
don't hesitate as we unearth the row. Sleek, they take
all hunger makes its own.