Still Necessary
by Lisa Rhoades
All weekend a kernel of loss
nudged me along, October
does that sometimes, each morning
a little darker on the staircase
out of summer.
I am looking for mercies this Monday:
for my body to ache less,
for my marriage to feel
like purple asters—sturdy and sweet
reaching out by the steps
a late gift to the bees—
instead of like a field sculpted by hurt,
seeded with a crop never meant
for summer feasts, not
Ambrosia, Nirvana, or Silver Queen
just dent corn, tough and stripped
from its stalks, scattered
in the combine’s wake,
but still necessary, still food.
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