Christina Pacosz


Life is always coming out of the dark, rushing up like water from the ground,
and these are a few moments, not the whole world.
Only the bright lemon-light of a barn.

Hunched over, a man, his face unseen, leans into a brown flank
and the warm, white milk runs past his scarred fingers into the bucket
with a terrible metallic sound.

We think we know this, the mythic past. But how to understand a barn.
Something holy, yes, but the root for the word ransack
hides in the hay stored in that barn, a fugitive.

Tonight, the grass is tall and aching for a second cutting.
The cows are waiting at stanchions to be milked, patient as candles.
Here is a butter-yellow light, the clean aroma of milk. Shouts, fire.

A rank odor at the end of it all.