Farm Dance

At thirteen a man tried to teach me to waltz,placed his rough hand in mine, his blue eyes

better than anything I’d seen. I had just burnedherbs for my birthday, wilted flower heads

and every twig I could findlaid in a circle of stones beneath a shrinking sky.

In front of the flaming tomatoes, pepperswith spots on their skins, long rows

of basil, the man put his hand on my waist.I’d never been touched. Even now

love seems like a stranger’s watchI picked up on the roadside, still ticking. My friend

waited six months for her loverto come home, placing the cards

on the table every night: sword, sword, cup.He showed up facedown in water. Still

some flowers grow in disturbed places. Tansyand pineapple weed on curbs and cow pastures

where tire and hoof have trampled. Tonight, again,twilight polishes everything to shine:

ankles, ribs, the spaces between firs,fingers that have traced steps

and cut ham, taped boxes shut.These days, I keep, I don’t burn anything down.