Donna Vorreyer

D o n n a  V o r r e y e r

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Hollowed

It comes between us, this emptiness,

this knowing we will always be empty,

no matter how long and deep we plow.

Nothing will take root, bear any sort

of flower or fruit, our machinery rusted

and beyond repair. We steal the ripest

bounty from neighboring fields, survive

the fallow seasons, wait for some small

sign, a merciful hand to pluck us from

the chaff, cradling us for a moment,

then scattering us gently, like unspoken

prayers, like seeds that will not open.