In the Garden
fall, from the Old English feallan, to fall down
Under molten skies She spies Henry black-as-indigo field hand spread out like a week’s washing against the fence stobs head back arms akimbo She opens her mouth ready to go into her familiar rigamorole Henry, you been out all night — got tight — didn’t make it home? When she sees he’s still as some old scarecrow while a bird pecks at one of his eyes as if his face were a discarded corncob