by Lisa Baird
All words transcribed from the Hawthorn Farms seed catalogue
It wants to press
you flat. You can
feel it midribs—on bad
days, like a buffalo
standing on your
inhale.
Go back & empty
that house. Make
a heap in the yard.
Throw in the grinding
clocks with their blistered hours.
The papered-over insomnia.
The spineless cardboard
angels. All the years
you were easy
harvest.
Every brittle, wilted
heirloom. Even your name
is a catalogue
of overheated seeds
on the yellowing wind—
remember
what you came here for
& speak it like a bloom
of trumpets.
Do not ask
the fire to cleanse
anything. Just stand
close. Body steaming.
Eyes clear.
Copyright ©:
Lisa Baird
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