Size / / /

Just another couple come to neck,

to roll around and stain themselves

and leave some of their seed on me.

She just pretends I'm much too heavy

when I'm full. But when she's full

a greater weight will beat next to her heart.

She's fast enough uphill, although she laughs

more than she runs. You'd think the lug

would know by now what she has planned.

He reaches for me but she's faster.

(Easier?) We're out of reach.

She sets me down, my mouth wide open.

She pulls him down into my grass,

nearly as warm as the summer sun today.

He pumps, although they haven't reached the well.

She cries out when the sperm spans skins,

wet everywhere. I almost hope with her.

I hope this one is different than the others.

She takes his hand and takes the pail.

At well-side she leans in and points,

whispers, romance reflected in their eyes.

I am centrifugal, come out of his blind side,

hit him where he does not expect it.

I'd cry but I can only dent.

She drags his body down, away from town,

to bury with the others, flattened grass

running wrong way against my scalp.

I drink. She watches her own eyes,

whispers lullabies, and begs this one

to take root, not to wash away.




Mary Alexandra Agner writes of dead women, telescopes, and secrets. Her poetry, stories, and nonfiction have appeared in The Cascadia Subduction ZoneShenandoah, and Sky & Telescope, respectively. She can be found online at http://www.pantoum.org.
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