There is hyssop in the dark in the ditch.
I walked down there to get flowers with my husband.
Our shoes smelled ancient and medicinal for a long time after.
There are farm machines that look like spacecraft with spotlights
And drown out the stars above. You know what they are called,
The machines with names like pets and attachments.
You look like a Hutterite boy in a cowboy hat
And paisley shirt with silver snaps. Irresistible.
When we get to the lake, you push me under the water.
The waves wash me up in an imaginary bikini.
I put my fingers in your mouth, and you push me under.
The sky is biled with clouds.
We are driving home through the northern fields.
I have dreams of winnowing forks.
I am locked up in the morning with a bolt over my heart.
They’ll take my baby and throw him against a passing train.
This is a short story that ends in stoning.
–The Bride Minaret, University of Akron Press