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What you see on the corn is what you’ll get,
and the cattle come to the fence
in hopes of hay. During seven years of corn,
like the sand of the sea, like amber
floating, we wore the king’s ring on our fingers.
We swore the sun and moon and stars
bowed down to us. When a king dreams
(and we all thought we were king),
the cows rise from the river, and ears
have their own hunger, but in such amber,
even prophets were silent. Coal
and oil couldn’t last forever. When I could
breathe, I slept and dreamed, then woke to imitate
the sheaves in all their bending.
Art by Maggie Nowinski.
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[av_one_half]Angie Macri is the author of UNDERWATER PANTHER (Southeast Missouri State University), winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize, and FEAR NOTHING OF THE FUTURE OR THE PAST (Finishing Line). Her recent work appears in Poetry, Superstition Review, and Tar River Poetry. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs.[/av_one_half]
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