seamstress at the orchard

March 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

The body is a vessel,
at most, the interior quietly humming.
Now the vessel staggers, aching to consume
But every aperture shut tight
Even the hands curling over themselves

Let’s say this: I live on the land, I wear a white apron.
I pick Fruit, I pick acorns off their perch.
Once they were abundant,
Now they scarcely appear, if so
Pale foliage, pale hands—
I tore apart my own land,
asking questions to the soil
but discovering the roots tied tightly
In a bundle.
Choked itself.

Strange,
A young woman appears at the door,
I had not sent for her
though I let her in.
She enters the room and tucks her skirt
Between her thighs and kneeling,
lifts my body in her soft hands.
her soft hands float around
my corpse.
She asks to see the orchard.
I let her out and again, she returns,
carrying a dark, woody tuber about the size of the smallest rib.
She asks me to calm and removes a pincushion from her vest.
“I’ll just sew you back up. It is, in fact, one of your own.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading seamstress at the orchard at Lightedhand.

meta

%d bloggers like this: