after Gwendolyn Brooks
When I was called to be a godly woman, I
set the field aflame. Take the Flint Hills, a bid
to make something as yielding as it can be.
Much of love is endurance. My own, firm
as ranchers burning fields they could never till—
may what grows back be worthy of its soil. I
need to see, my love, that you will return,
a greening spring of tallgrasses. It comes from
the heart: I don’t mean to put you through hell,
I promise. Can’t you see? My love, I
am taking a torch to the land, am
reducing each stem to ash myself. The very
smoke of it like incense, hungry
to settle in my lungs. So close, I
wear its veil. Oh, love, how attentive I am.
Eye to the prairie, lest the blazing be incomplete.
When I was called to be a godly woman, I
set the field aflame. Take the Flint Hills, a bid
to make something as yielding as it can be.
Much of love is endurance. My own, firm
as ranchers burning fields they could never till—
may what grows back be worthy of its soil. I
need to see, my love, that you will return,
a greening spring of tallgrasses. It comes from
the heart: I don’t mean to put you through hell,
I promise. Can’t you see? My love, I
am taking a torch to the land, am
reducing each stem to ash myself. The very
smoke of it like incense, hungry
to settle in my lungs. So close, I
wear its veil. Oh, love, how attentive I am.
Eye to the prairie, lest the blazing be incomplete.
Taylor Brunson is a poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her work has recently been featured in Mineral Lit Mag, Non.Plus Lit, and The Daily Drunk Mag. She serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and an assistant nonfiction editor for Nashville Review. Taylor can be found on Twitter, @taylor_thefox.