Plant them, our sacred fictions.
The story of us never held a lash
of truth. We are harnessed
to a word. Memory’s velvet tugs
rub slowly, slowly down
to bone. But O! so luxurious
the bit. So lovely, to strain
the tyrant share through sod, to cut
our sin into dark rich soil —
backsloped and foreign.
This is not our ground, but
the mules are taut in the collars,
the plowman shapes the furrow —
harvest sold to the highest bid.
We remain hungry for purpose.
We chew sugar and bitter greens.
We are the mules, the blade,
the plowman’s hand: the seed
that never sheds its coat.