Anthrow Circus

Harvest: A Poem

POEM BY BRIT WASHBURN
PHOTO BY TAYLOR SCHUELKE

We’re excited to round out our categories of stories by adding poetry. Enjoy this first poem, and watch for more to come!


Harvest

On the kitchen counter, three ripe tomatoes
a heap of sweet onions, a pile of potatoes
caked with dirt, but sacred for that,
like hands calloused from work, or the skin’s
star-chart of scars—here, where the nail went in,
here the dog’s teeth, here the knife;
here, where the scalding water spilled, here,
where the car door slammed closed; here
where our children grew ripe like fruit,
here, where your mouth named the hurt—
faint now, like the taste of rain in wine,
or the sense of something missing,
or the memory of our bodies
as gardens before the harvest.


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