Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Picture by picture, faces emerge,
crops of sinners come to town,
women veiled, men oiled, pressed,
angled like scythes and bucksaws,
strong enough for change.
The month, you suppose, October,
when cornfields rattle with wind,
old pipe organs bereft of song,
always a farmerís tractor ready,
fat kernels to be hulled.
One woman perhaps you know,
her nose yours, cheeks sagged,
puckered visage real as recalled
snippets of who she once was.
She, like the others, waits,
time flattened in lungs,
her dress a burgundy curtain,
eyes tuned to reaped and sown,
mouth ready, almost an amen.
About Laura Hirneisen