Wheat threshed, casks of cherries, plums,
boiled melon, beef tallow, pig bladders blown
and tossed by children, mothers stirring stock,
kidneys, hearts pressed with aspic,
casings scraped and stuffed, allspice, cloves.
Fields bare, packed clay, porcelain sheen,
the long winter sleep. In my dream,
I wake and the village is empty,
coal smoldering, acacia shadows on snow.
Second sons, sow thistle, the first to go.
In my dream, I wake to chaff and dust,
a war lost, harvest thrown down,
grain scattered on the temple floor.
In my dream, I wake hungry, an ocean away
in a hut hollowed out of the side of a hill, Black Sea
salt in my mouth. Wild onion, sage,
hawkweed, prickly rose, plowed
dirt worked thin as smoke, poplar scrub
felled and bucked into windrows to make way for
electric blooms, Monsanto Roundup Ready canola.