Child of the Field

He that complies against his will, Is of his own opinion still. – Samuel Butler

I am bare feet and thick-skin

to the hard red earth in a too washed

cotton dress that turns me

the color of summer, a child

of the field pretending to speak

some beautiful language from an ancient

people, kinsmen from a land far, far away.

Damn the hand who runs

roughshod over my drama!

These are my cheekbones, in

silent defiance I rebel, I spin

tales of a kept honor.

A dry tear is like a dry drunk -

All symptom, no rationale.

My limbs are still green and believable,

time has not even begun.

It stands hateful and still in the corn

rows and among the potato slips.

Clearly we can lie dormant

in the womb of our ancestors. I walk

backward toward them to release

a tired child of the field to her youth.