She, living in Baltimore,
had not spoken to her Mississippi
sun-burnt father in seven years.

He was a farmer,
she wanted a boutique.

There were the phone-calls,
at least in the beginning,
but then they too dried up
like clay pots cracking under a solar flare.

Her scars were still there at least,
she reckoned,
and those were enough to
disconnect any phone line.

But there is still a gnawing
at her insides, an impregnation
of her nose hairs,
a waltzing of her taste buds.

She picks up the pay-phone,
breathing heavier now,
sobbing as if the dial tone could touch her.

She knows that some fields
just can't stay fallow
forever.