A Turn of the Plow, a Furrow, a Line of Writing

When the drought filled with fire,
the men thought maybe it’s natural
after all, and when the grave
filled with wombs, they said
it’s just a matter of time.
Women bit their lips as they’d been taught,
to draw more color to their mouths
but also to hold the word
they knew not to say, no: no
to fire taking horses, vineyards, the old
too slow to get out; no to drought
taking the garden as if the angel’s sword
had fallen from its hand and took root;
no to the graves of women
who gave birth and died
or tried not to and paid
with their lives; no to the womb
about which men wrote laws
and tried to enter again and again
on account of the verse
about loving the way of a man
with a virgin, with a young girl
and trying to say that doesn’t mean
what you thought.

by Angie Macri