← v15n2, Fall 2016
Poetry · Volume 15, Number 2

Since Last We Spoke

Across the bean field

we have bulls, silent as grass,

silent as your calls. My sheets

don’t smell of kerosene

anymore. Thank you

for the stove, lamps,

re-fri-ge-ra-tor, oh

and the TV. I shoveled

the dirt myself when

we turned our icebox

into pots. I planted

the peace lilies

and fancy-leaf caladiums

you like. Dandelions

rule the cornfields. It’s how

the bulls get fat.