with a translated line from “Fils d’Horizon,” by Jacques Rancourt
So you already know we’ve placed ourselves in the nape of the rake. Copper harp. Sickle-
tongued. You know
each season we’ve braided strands of wheat into rope
to tie about our necks. My father, a Jacques Rancourt too,
split back the wormed casing
of a rotted tree to remind me
we open into fields. Dry haven. Corned breath. My father
split back the wormed casing
of a rotted tree to remind me
we open into fields. Dry haven. Corned breath. My father
