National Poetry Month--Day 3

Today's poet is V. Penelope Pelizzon:

"Hunter's Moon,"

                       my mother calls the golden fist

clenched above the rye stubs, half-gloved in smoke haze

over our burning fields.

Mine remains the smaller hand. No blood yet,

my bones not begun reaching for a woman's height

while her body, digging

late onions from the frost-line at the garden's

ashen foot, seems strong as if my birth

had never broken her.

Three rabbits, bold after a summer of plenty,

don't hesitate as we unearth the row. Sleek, they take

all hunger makes its own.