For David, after Millet
The air distends, diffusing light and sound.
Our vespers announce on bellsong. Crows rise
in timorous peal of wingflap, feather-
flushed messengers, evangels and vandals.
Our heads lean in, prayer prone, twin candle-
flames bent on breath—whence it comes—what breather
gutters our thoughts, then on throatwicks, gives words rise:
According to thy word. A shaped sound, round
as potatoes, those blind tubers die but never die,
only sprout eyes and live their lives beneath the ground.
The same bent back which forks potatoes for the basket
will spade the hole for the casket of a child.
Seth Wieck’s stories, poetry, and essays can be found in Narrative Magazine, The Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, and The Broad River Review, where he won the Ron Rash Award in Fiction. He lives in Amarillo with his wife and three children.