The tobacco field knew nothing of the city it left behind

for crabgrass and deer, how the coarse blades changed our

hands, tar-like, as our mother’s had once before, in the

warm night, leaning on the windowsill, blowing smoke

rings at the moon — The scent nearly burst the shed,

changed us, our palms, our arms, the side along which we

held the fronds, Grab the lowest, rip from stalk but careful not to

hurt the body of the trunk — It must live another harvest so

we can balance on our hips, season after season— The

rumor is that first there was the city, then we made it wild,

let it fall, stored our spoils of tobacco in the stone

chamber. Long ago, and only color now, long shades of

chocolate-gold. It is the year of color and my body is

practically unknown: brown, and auburn, over — At

twilight the women move between the trees to steal blue

eggs from the nests, and men etch drawings on the walls

where late I drag my hands until the stone draws blood.