One plough amongst many runs ‘cross An infertile campus The threat of first frost Following in her tow To reap one something From the settled bed of salt. Combing seeds in the sod, The anchor in her womb Drags—soon, so soon, The distance won’t widen, the burden will stop Her knees will buckle in debt and chance Will lock her where she falls Her failure will sprout and flower. The falling sweat flashed years before To the juice beading in single drops A vain nectar of her other’s field, Biding her, come, eat of appearance; Her crop was brown, but budding, She left her crop to die. Unprepared for the neglected miles She toiled in the changing leaves And, of course, the gilded fellow Him, the established man Could draw her in: with gleaming ivies Red, tight, yellow, sweet A wine of the eyes that sits on the vine Families of prodigality smiles with brimming bags Baskets pregnant in promise, Those happy mouths full of praise and food. For there, she followed That procession, honest, in the borrowed garden.