| Brown Widows
Long after their tall-legged,
heavy-breasted sisters
were mowed down,
they were still standing.
Short widows in
rustling dresses of grey-brown taffetta.
Widows,
though they had never married.
With eyes that had seen all,
backs withered beneath a cruel sun,
they shivered now
and drew their shawls tight against November.
Corn widows
grown old from thirst
this brown-drought year:
No lover's kiss falling raindrops
wetting legs and toes;
no sweaty early morning mist
stroking budding breasts; licking ears.
At the bony, shriveled bodies,
the farmer sneered.
Start up the green combine?
Run the forking tines between the rows?
For what?
Snapped and broken rubbish?
Wizened corn breasts? Kernels so puny
even crows passed disdainful shadows over the fields?
More important chores needed done:
rolling cut hay into solid sea swells;
hauling cattle home in metal trucks
from summer pastures. |
|
Ann Wynn received her BA from Beloit College.
Last year she won the Emma Sigmon Memorial Award. She has been published in Harrisburg
Review, Experimental Forest and Susquehanna River Journal.
- Beauty for Ashes Poetry Review ©1996-2000
- ©A Creative Ash Publication 2000
- Isaiah 61:1-3
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