we fought all morning
and then you found
the horses had trampled the fields
you found their hoove marks
in the collard greens,
their leaves parted
like children,
ashamed to be seen.

you went to town,
and i stayed in the field
and cried
because i am afraid of you
and then i began to carve a burdock root from the earth
as if it were a memory
we'd share for dinner
outloud, i wrote you poetry
with heart-cupped-hands,
moved the damp earth away from the stalk of the plant,
grateful it was stubborn
and i was patient
and small
and lonely for its company
and we were both anchored to the earth
by secrets
round wound dirt and stones.
and with deep-sun-breaths, I lifted them.

And then you came home
and with one hand,
and one pull,
took the burdock root from the earth,
like it was nothing.

I stood holding it--
too rotten, you to told me, to eat for dinner--
when you said you were just hurting
like the trampled fields.
Then, angry, you turned and walked back to the house
like the horses
strong and sudden,
their hooves gliding through the wildflowers
on the hill behind the fence
now carefully pulled closed,
their backs arched
to carry on
the sky.