No one asks for silence this morning
but we give it without question. The dawn,
long past, brought a haze of heat, laid it down
over us heavy, not at all like your body
over mine. Not at all like that.
Last night, a storm struck us down.
I watched lightning crack the side of the barn,
wind snap the bean trellis, toss it up, spinning.
We salvage what we can.
The sky doesn’t ask if we want our arms
slick with sweat as we pick beans, row on row,
does not ask if we want to kneel in the shade
panting like old house cats, to vomit into the weeds.
July doesn’t ask what we desire.
It only creeps up over the hill each morning,
brings us what we deserve.
Printed with permission from Abby Chew, copyrighted by Abby Chew @ 2013. This piece originally appeared Issue No. 14 of in the Los Angeles Review.