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Job’s Tears

by Robert Peake

  • Once, I was more than this rosary –
  • finger-polished white translucence
  • streaked with devotional smoke: I remember
  • leaves unfurled like sails, stalks
  • bending in damp heat, droplets ripening,
  • calcified grief.
  • I recall the stillness of children
  • hiding in tall grass, mothers
  • calling over the wail of crickets, playing
  • together and apart.
  • I survived everything: the cutting
  • away of tenderness, stripped
  • for kindling under a summer moon.
  • Only the seeds remained, pearls
  • of memory polished by wind,
  • the hands of the harvester trembling.


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