Poisoned Grains

Stepping into the field

of things remembered by my mind

is like stepping into a field

of landmines

because there's always something

I don't want to find

that finds me anyway.

There are hedges I planted long ago

hiding scenes from me

until I least need to see them

again

the hedge dies back for Winter

and windows open.

Bolder now

older now

I face the memories shrouded

with bleeding eyes from the spiked branches

as I press myself too close

and the blood blurs my vision

in tear-streaks.

The memories are bolder now too

strengthened by hindsight, maturity

lifted the rose-tinted glasses

from the bridge of my nose

is broken

from punishing myself for the growth of the crops

others planted.

I brandish my scythe

and recognise

that I deserved better

I deserve better

than these crops that unsettle my stomach

gluten intolerant

disrespect intolerant

and I will not tolerate their growth in my

field.

Hacking at the stalks is like hacking

up my lungs

choking on sobs as the sower of the seeds does nothing

but watch

without knowing I'm hacking

at everything they've built in me

and left to rot.

I gather my harvest

of poisoned grains with grace

and dignity not offered to me

is within view now

through the windows of the hedges and the haze

and process the plants in

the processing plant

where there is just me

and the tools

and the brands

seared into my chest and my back and my hands

from the time spent with the crops

has left me with sand

and gravel in my nails hurts more than I can

bear to stand.

Bailing takes time when the baling takes time

rolling memories into one another

across the years

across the tears

combined and bound

until insurmountable masses of pain threaten

to fall apart again

unless I have found

as I search for now

the twine to tie it all up tight

and I do pull with all my might

to make sure it won't undo tonight

and these memories may leave sometime

on the next wagon out.