Poetry Archives

This must be how it happens: that the sun
Enlarges the boles, that they become heavy
And bend on their stalks, hanging singly
Or in pairs, in the dry wind, almost done
With swelling.  That the village women come
With their knives, not cutting but lightly
Touching, like a fingernail run slightly
Over a tender place, that by turns is numb
And sensitive, and begins to weep, early,
Out of a fullness it can barely contain.
That to gather these tears, they scrape with the tongue
Of a wooden knife, while poppies prematurely
Burst and bloom all around them, like opened veins,
And what they are seeking is, finally, come.