Harvest
I remember many days perhaps
not intended for me.
they were harvesting days,
in fields,
in towns where little boys
won't sit in cheap seats.
on winding roads,
I would walk,
naked and cut;
mouth full of salt and blood,
wearing the necklace
carefully formed
by my mother's tears.
had I waited for the
dark, dripping, dampness
of winter,
I would have missed
the sight of you
rising from the dust,
fingers at my throat,
grasping the pain
that encircled my neck,
never fully taking hold.
you should have saved me.
had I waited,
maybe the aroma of
the smoke-filled skies
would have led me to
a town where little boys
never cared if I were
cheap or not;
a town where you
finally love me.
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