Sorghum Toil

The imperfections
We once loved
Are now the cracks
Fracturing us

Our core,
That original heart,
Now works as brittle glue
Binding,
But failing

We are
Chaos and pain,
Circular
Like breathing,
The unnatural
Natural motions

Our ebb and flow
Slows
Like molasses
In winter,
And we are no longer certain
We wish to light the stove
To once again
Soften the bitter, salted
Blackstrap

— Robert Lloyd