by Zinta Aistars
Like eating earth, smell of dank soil,
musty secrets and spores, rich
with the footprints of history
and its creation – mouthing the flesh
of my ancestors, the sweat of their efforts,
sodden dreams and buried mysteries
of loves lost, loves regained, passions
subdued and simmered to ash.
At forest edge, clusters and clods,
tiny families pushed through loam,
bunched against the seeping shade.
Blade that cuts their stubby throats
gleams silver against my palm,
tongue tip to the corner of my lips,
Published in literary e-zine, Flashquake, March 2005.