Marilyn Humbert
Don’t go to the river
mother whispers
last days of harvest
under the molten sun
air is still, breathless
waves of heat
distort the view
beneath boundary trees
this drowsy afternoon
my toes cooling in the trickle
don’t go to the river
mother’s murmur adrift
as harvest workers begin
like a storm of hungry locust
stripping the crop
leaving me hollow
bared
tattooed with shame
