You Are The Woman Behind The Pitchfork

When he’s working in the field,
with the pitchfork
you are in the kitchen. Steam
catching your face and skin
covering this place –
a room you never asked for.

You go to the acres yourself
the lands you both apparently
own. What is yours and his
is divided in the rooted trees
and carrots and potatoes –
his grown treats, brought
to you, to prepare, a ritual,
a thanks, an upheld agreement,
an abiding of a contract.

The land is soiled and treated
          well
you step on an onion. It cracks
and weeps. Its tears remain
under your boot. You break
a small part of him, only
he will never know it. You
          run

You Are The Woman Behind The Pitchfork

through the cornfields
and guttered lines of hay
to the flagstones
to the edge of the woods.
Inside you’re not so sure
what there is to find –
dancing naked witches
and womyn and fairies
and wolves and nothing
and everything.

You do not go into the woods,
you stand for too long,
          a decision
          formed
          cannot be
          unformed.
Going back, you are
          a failure.
Hard sheets of rain
belt you, guide you.
You step on your own
footsteps, as if you are already
          lost.

You Are The Woman Behind The Pitchfork

Still in the fields,
his shirt wet, dirt caked
under his boots. You go
          to him –
you take the pitchfork
you say, stop
and you push him, a little shove
but enough
for him to trip and fall
and the wet mud
covers him and he is silent
just breathing
his face in that mud
and then up at you.

Now? he says,
and you throw the pitchfork
through the air, far
              enough.
You watch it hit
              the ground,
stop, still, dead.
You sit in the mud.