Patra’s Tears

Patra’s Tears

Patra walked behind her tears,

and the world blurred before her.

Indian paint brushes

bled their color into the summer grass.

Patra planted corn in the meadow by the river.

She sowed seed

in furrows he had turned

in the spring when frost

had lost its hold and the sun was honest again.

The court had hired a jury

paid for by a wealthy devil.

He stood in front of the judge

as innocent as the next day.

The practiced attorney

spoke before the unfit jurors,

crowing and creaking in

oxfords of polish.

While her husband

stood in shackles in front of a hollow judge.

On a Friday,

he hung by his neck,

beneath the oak by the church,

where the preacher had blessed them.

Birds sang sweet in the blue sky and sun.

They knew not to change,

they kept their place for the love she had lost.

And now he was cold

as the stone in the hearth.

Alone as alone must mean.

Half of her had left her heart,

and rode her face as tears,

just she,

and her unborn child,

in the meadow by the river,

and the seeds, in the furrows he had turned.

Hayward 2006