← v15n2, Fall 2016Poetry · 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.
