In dying fields

The hours have petrified a little more, have forgotten to announce themselves. And I, against all odds, miss the dirt in the wind and wonder why we bother debating the ethics of hospitality. I celebrate the harvest, pistachio shells between my teeth – the act of the break is a symptom of readiness (how a thing matured can’t help but split open). I cannot afford the luxury of malice, though it might be all I take. Isn’t it frightening, to mistake debt for love, to have it scrape at your phantom pride? The smoke never stopped licking our faces, blurring the edges of things – cruelties prefer to stay gloved and groomed; the scarecrow got its name as a derivation of its purpose.

Originally published in Paragon Press, Aug 2019.