And so it began.
Permanence. Roots.
Only the woman grinding
wheat with her stones knows there is no such
thing. She has carried more than one
dead child to its grave. Seen plants decompose.
Milk sour. Clay gods break in two.
Already labor and myth have crowded her memory.
She no longer remembers herself less clothed.
She no longer thinks that it’s a strange new
world. When war comes she swallows a new fear,
gets used to the taste. So used to it that
after ten thousand years we are still here,
still swallowing.
Click here to read Lenora Steele on the origin of the poem.
Image by faglimmer on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Lenora Steele's poetry has been published in: Santa Clara Review, Atlanta Review, Event, The New Quarterly, Eastern Iowa Review, The Fiddlehead, The Fourth River, Acumen & others. She lives where the dykes hold back the muddy red waters of the Bay of Fundy in, Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada, on the unceded territory of the Mi’kmaq people, once known as, We’kwampekitk, the Land Where the Waters End.
Latest posts by Lenora Steele (see all)
- In Our Image - October 23, 2026