The farmers are enlisting
arriving out of darkness
hoods over our eyes
milking down colostrum
discovering the seed
the source of erotica
begin to crave.
from a distant liquid
world out of pain
churning easier than wings
my womb abandoned
for the chance to die.
I enter weightless
threading my fat
new-born fingers into language.
The invaders are unsettled
their hatch-marked bandoleers
imbedded into their shoulders.
The invaders feel chills
up against the fenceless concrete silo
its cracked walls linking fields
to udders to fingers to mouths.
The farmers clean their pasture springs
rescue the drowned woodchuck, too late
and watch the water clear, they may.
The invaders chew paraffin
soaked drawstrings and lie
in wait, matches at the ready.
The farmers fetch a newborn calf
check beneath its tail for one barrel or two.
Definitions delivered –a barnyard
budding petroglyphs, skullbags
discharged against Mother’s Tongue.
The tractor breaks loose, scavenging
fate, pulling strings, treading lightly
coughing up pubescent words.
They find themselves
tiptoe to the window
and sniff the wind.