Fall 2010 / Issues / Poetry 2010 / Volume 41

Pieces in the Loam — Rachel Van Essen

The smell of black soil

drifts with every handful

warms my palms

I sift it through my fingers

and listen to soft sounds

of falling prairie grasses

burned by raging fires,

of buffalo bodies

left to rot in the summer sun,

and of the foreign loam

brought here on high blown currents

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