Gabriel Fried

Demeter, after

Each farmer loses something of the harvest;

each has planted rows too near the forest.


I’ve lost myself in losing her.

The torch is cast aside and smolders.


I return now, after years, to work the earth

as one returns to sex: Not to sow. To rehearse.


To feel the cold dirt pressed against the wrist.




“Demeter, after” is reprinted from Making the New Lamb Take (2007) by permission of Sarabande Books.