When did I cease to be
the bird that I have been;
was it that I have fallen
sullen at midstream,
or immersed earthwise
I have gone dusty with wives
that cook for men with irregularities
between their thighs?
No father.
I am yet your harp;
tune me but fingerly
and my strings will echo
songs of my inside.
I am your right hand,
I will mend your barn
and girdle my breath
for after this harvest
there’s the visit adults
and orphans will call
from windowless houses;
then will come the test
of my planting songs.