The Harvest

INT. FILM SET: DAY

Poverty's royalty -- you're nature's princess.
Every bird, frog, or blade of grass unconditionally
loves you. Forever Christmas morning --
the charmed life of unyielding beauty.

It's all some special privilege for you,
this kid's life -- minimum wage with perks --
leftovers from the meals of B-list stars.
The food never came. They forgot about you.
But you laughed the whole shift through,
hanging around the set eating pbj sandwiches.

The gaffer probed your abs,
going for the goods with hairy-knuckled fingers,
but he never got a good feel --
your doyley-dress that's all the rage in Spain
was in the way. You were too proud to let him stop,
too shy to lift your top
and expose the residue of harvesting.
Peculiar -- you dabbled in self-loathing,
just to feel alive --
all the spores, bugs, and pollen in the wind wept
for your beautiful bleeding garden of skin.

INT. DORMITORY: NIGHT.

From the hallway they can hear
your frantic fingers on the violin for hours.
I caught one
standing outside your door listening.
He looked up at me and said, "she's good."
You must press it stiff against your neck.
When I see you there's a red mark there
but maybe it's just a hickey.
And you are good.
You're starving but it never shows.
You're alive but you never bleed.

Courteous Daniel has pictures on his angry door
of black and white faces resembling you.
Chopped and photocopied tiles --
pictures of a domestic goddess
from an old housekeeping ad.
He is never angry when you speak,
and he offers you cigarettes
even though he knows you don't smoke.
But still has pictures of not you on his door.

Friendly Ursula is jealous.
She smiles to your face,
but when she first saw it, she wanted
to drag a rake across it or to kiss it.

EXT. DREAM: NIGHT

embodiment of your contorted body nude
head down on the bed neck bent awkward
face is not your face
your remains flipped up at jagged angles
and all your buried gashes hidden bruises vulnerable and open
what is this field and what is this fruit
this bed under stars this harsh wind on a harvest moon

get ready for the harvest
prodding hoes and scythes are coming
your body's sown full of wild oats
hicks in a huddle with booze and smokes
are cussing about your gash and your rack
who gets eyes who gets nose who gets what
c'mon boys
grab a bushel for a couple bucks

i'm the ghastly silhouette against the moon the
grimy reaper who wants it all intact blood bruises and all
scattering a circle of ash around the field as they have their way with you
that cackle that could have been the wind
a rusty fiddle under a shaky arm
accompanies the
smell of death bubba's whiskey breath
squeal like a pig as they dig
in

tap tap tap the circle is complete
my bag of bones my tasty piece of meat
scuttle up and crawl on the sky like a spider
you're my free bird my crow show
all your blood and guts splattered across the stars

the projector flickers celluloid catches fire
and the world busts apart into fiery blemishes
the bottom of the dream the onset of the harvest
the soft suck on the surface
you await.