Mr WordPress on Hello world!
A pitchfork can bite
so easily through soft flesh,
so deeply and cleanly through,
all the way through into the earth.
I look back, watch myself
discreetly pull the intrusion
from my own barefoot,
begin the long walk
from the bottom field, dust
rising along the cowpath
as i slowly trudge
toward the house,
the prison of discipline.
I slip quietly into this space.
Wash, oint, bandage quickly.
Wait for harsh words to rip the air
and dark days to descend,
full of cleaning and dusting
and tedious hours of polishing
that wretched old dining room table
with all its tucks and creases etched
into each wooden leg, demanding
enough time for me to ponder
the proper place of a girl-child.
But i coveted the wind, the scent of lush
green grass and the breathless flowing
of cool-creek-water through wooded-moist-silence
where buttercups danced yellow-sun-drops
into my heart.
Nobody ever knew that
I day-dreamingly stabbed
my own foot with that pitchfork,
two prongs along each side
while the center, the heart prong,
tried to anchor me to the earth forever.
© peggy anne larson—-may 5, 2011