David Allen
 
 

 

          THE HUSBAND
 

A fraying rope has my friend

above the harvest

between two thin hands.

 

From the barrier of the hay loft

we toss our soda bottles

to the Ramblerís hood below.

 

Hard cherry candies

the desert of breakfast

we steal from the market,

save our drinks past

the phylloxera vineyards

back to the loft,

the demoted orchards.

 

Our heads tilt into the straw,

circle out the taste

with a view of the nests

century-bare plum trees hold.

 

I tell her about the bulls

touched on their anuses

by electric prods,

stimulating them

into a donation

later given to the cows.

 

She says guys are all barbed wire

and dolls, and wants to be a rancher

who lets her bulls fuck.

Copyright © 2003 David Allen.  All Rights Reserved.

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