Colliding Crops

April cruelty of rain-chilly wind, six months
until harvest- for a woman to write out of
this, to make words do this strain-of-first-birth
dance, depends on the sense that the erstwhile
female is replaced by a raw-nerved, patterned,
womanly archetype, solid as a silo, to be picked at by
the little-minded for occupying space in a man's
arid world. Stacy stands on the verge of a realm
not tearless, but over tears, so that tears themselves
form a kind of second skin around her, & the child
to be born is cried out- here's a place where I
could've been no one. I still have no substance.
What pours out of me, as I absorb the Indiana
landscape, is just refuse of what I've never had-