Yield

 

She drapes her dirty child
in a green, threadbare scarf,
slings it across her back
and drops down to dig
roots. She tosses aside
a fossil of a fish, rocks
of ancient snails.
They may as well be
shit from the ass carrying
sacks of potatoes caked
with dry, brown earth.
The child sleeps
pressed against her ribs.
Her skin is the desert,
she lips a silent blessing.
Her arms have been full
for years. She knows
better than kill the last goat.

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