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.