she wears them when she has to clean the muck

scrub the cowshed
herd goats
mend a fence

sometimes the fields flood
and she hitches them high

but the cuffs always manage
to soak in the mud

now that the baby’s older
and she’s got her waist back
she uses a rope
to hold them in place

it’s not a great look but
hey who’s gonna say

the cows don’t care about
that sort of thing

the goats
even less

they chew
as she rubs their behinds with hay

as she pours water into
their drinking pans

later she’ll shower
and wear a pretty dress

play with the baby

as the cat sleeps

and the soup simmers

in an old glazed pot of
white clay

Seema Chopra

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Different as fingers are,
they work to form the fist
that holds the hammer
of how we began,
two shapes probably never
meant to fit, impossible
now to separate, to imagine
otherwise than joined
by whatever force,
the sun pushing against
a cloud, poetry without
meter or form, electricity
and the matter of music.
The awkward steps,
the running starts,
there is no sense
to make of it, how even
falling apart we land
in this upward instant
of a bird taking to air.

Charles Carr
http://allpoetry-classic.com/selfrisinmojo

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