We are still here.
After the fires that burned. After the threshing machine choked with rust.
In our hunger we kept the elevators filled with grain.
Still the ground must remember crops
that plumbed its soil. Legs of wheat and barley
in the punctured earth, the roots that bore
through substrate into shale.
A coyote crosses the stubbled field and yawns and slinks away.
Soon somebody else will come
to plant a forest upside down,
bury the crowns and leave
the roots to tangle
parched, in sharper air.

Fallow by Erika Luckert

Listen to this poem:

Photo used under CC.


About Author


Erika Luckert is a writer from Edmonton, Canada. She holds an MFA from Columbia University, and was a nominee for the Canadian National Magazine Award in Poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Room Magazine, Denver Quarterly, Indiana Review, CALYX, Entropy, Measure, and others. She lives in New York City, where she teaches creative and critical writing. www.erikaluckert.com

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: