Vuyelwa Carlin

all our bones,
all our dust

The corn is cut;
little bones emerge in late-
lit, long-lit

fields: in what far
future the white
brittle points, patterns,
of us? You are deep

clay, companion
of rainy
furrow-creepers—dusts,
delicate sockets, curlers

in seed: will we
lace (your lost, stocky
fingers!) these heartwoods?