Vespers At 9 Poem by Shannon Walker

Laid across the threshing floor,
Laboring over every breath,
Wet and exhausted in the
Shadow of the Angel of Death,
Feverish, and twitching, and sore;
The queen of the prairie wants more.
And I wish that I could make it last
Forever.

But I can't, and she says,
'You smell like sulfer, ' and I said,
'You didn't mind at four.'
And then, the jab,
'You think you're so clever.'
As she turns her gaze to that retreating shore.

And with crows shrieking,
Wooden slats creaking, yellowed paint
Peeling off the splintered door
Jamb; more, give me more,
Even as the wind roars
Down from the frigid north,
She lies in the dying sunlight,
In the chaff, and the grass, on the dusty floor.
'Give me more, ' she cries. 'More.'