K.E. OGDEN

After The Veteran in a New Field by Winslow Homer, 1865

Afraid, you embrace me, pull me to your
banished place. In dreams, rows of wheat wither

in orange bursts, in clusters of spaghetti
strands. A man is bent--knees bent, elbows bent

toward his body. Across his back, X
of suspenders; a belt buckle reflects

red dirt. After this long embrace, you might
wake for wood for fire. I draw the curtains.

I watch you twitch when I touch your arm—watch
your chest rise, moving with each shallow breath.