by Despy Boutris

Rain christens the city, fog as heavy
as buildings. The wind wafts between the trees,
the night dark as an open wound. I lie
in the wheat, my clothes a mess of mud,
my mouth inviting water in. My fingers
turn to ice. Even horses search for shelter
under oak. To give myself away
to what lacks mercy, this cloudburst claiming
the town. To lie in what I know: this wheat,
this soil, beneath this sickle moon, this
dimming sky, this body battered
by what demands submission.

Despy Boutris’s work is published or forthcoming in American Poetry Review, American Literary Review, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she teaches at the University of Houston, works as Assistant Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast, and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review.