this is my lot
we each have our own lot
a lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s field
a lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s hand
a lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a key
a key to a room
a skeleton key
we each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my room
is a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’t
some rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fields
with broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soil
the wife of lot
looked back & now
seasons all our
solitary suppers
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