Harvest for My Mother
Sun on my back with a bit of breeze to distract
from heat, and it's not summer not rainy season,
but that perfect moment between, when dry grasses
release their seeds. We could walk forever,
climb into the view, and eat our pomegranate,
suck at red flesh around each seed and see how far we can spit
the white pip. Together we've walked out of Hades,
and are worn out from that talk, so let's pay attention
to the sun and the hawk circling the canyon,
the hammering of a woodpecker in that old oak.
Each seed tells a new story, as we suck the silence.
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Carol Dorf’s work has been published in Runes, Five Fingers Review, Edgz, Caprice, New Verse News, Feminist Studies, The NeoVictorian, and elsewhere. She has taught in a variety of venues—as a California Poet in the Schools, at Lawrence Hall of Science, and at a large urban high school. She lives with two cats, one husband, and one child.
