Chelsea Dingman

The clover, cross-eyed in a field of witch
grass, grows bald in the wind

amid the shatter of small children
& I’m tired, again, of pretending  

kind men exist somewhere. As a child,
men were suns at the glass, the fires

that result. Dear god, you must be a torch
among them, setting the fields aflame

inside my own heart. Last night,
the wolfish wind leapt. The trees shook.

The stars died a little quicker. A man
called me names I disavowed when I

accepted I was human. Oh humanity:
what is more overrated than the human

heart?  Confound me. I am speaking
for the clover. The grass. The green bosom

of field I long to love as the wind loves
the future woman I have yet to—

Originally published in Moss: Volume Four.
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