Rebecca Foust


 O Love this happened or it did not.
In a room with green walls

my son was born. The cord was torn 
too soon, so they cut off 

his head to save his heart. He lived 
for a long time. 

For a long time there was no breath or cry. 
When finally he spoke, 

he spoke the wide, whorled leaves of corn. 
He spoke the crickets 

in clusters beneath the sheaves, he sang 
the soil in. He sang the wind

in the dune and hush of ebb tide. Some say 
he died. Some say he died.

First Published in The Hudson Review.