Day 1
by Terrence Dalton
My fields are
finished burning.
Where the harvest
was once stretching high
there is now black earth
barren as the ceiling
resting violently
still.
Before they were gone
I knew: the weather was perfect
for fires, cool warmth
settling in my chest
like a rush
of horses.
Now I see no field
and feel no hooves,
the memory fresh
of thumbs
thrumming a silent
rhythm,
shoulders rising flesh
with a front door swinging,
a silhouette imposed
upon a barn’s side,
hands holding a lit match
instead of a plow,
me kicking a chair because I feared
the moment of hanging.