, I confess
the combine at night
archangels churning their machine teeth
In precise rotating fashion

It’s really too bad
nobody sees The clean hum
the push and dig
of the five foot shovel
Or the flashy-edged table saw
with its red reverse button
i’m just saying
if you had known me
once with a paring knife
you’d still know me
yet this is no place
you’ll ever know me
living in sinewy shadow
unless i write down the wasted contents

if And when we were to meet
i could become less savage
promise To leave my combine at home


for Real Toads


23 thoughts on “contents 

  1. Annihilation must be the shadow of creativity. No wonder I love to write about death. The mill machinery here I think is made more menacing by the adroit avoidance of sane structuring of the stanzas.

  2. Oh, I am blind with jealousy of the chutzpah and panache that has you begin with a comma! The combine imagery is marvellous,

  3. Nice historical account, Angie. I’m with you a bit, there are parts I would skip in my run down. BUT, I bared all.

  4. This reminds me of wheat harvest (on a 90-degree June day in KS)
    the teeth and whir — I watched those teeth for hours and hours over my dad’s shoulder and lamented over the spilled wheat.
    I love how your poetry is so personal, yet the reader can draw from it like it belongs to them (to me!)

    1. I was beside myself last night when I was walking the dog and I saw a combine in the field… poetry in motion. It was dark and the lights were on inside the cab. and I was back in KS

      1. That just gave me chills. What was the farmer harvesting?
        One year, I put on a Laura Ingalls Wilder dress, hopped in the combine cab and watched those teeth for hours. Your words put me right back there. Thank you. xo

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