by Yael Herzog
On the second day at the farm we pulled eggplants from the ground.
They were small bare trees reaching wildly, tens of arms in sinew.
Three beds sprawled across the edges of the fields.
We started close. Bent low and gripped
our fists around
the bottoms of the necks. When
we felt the first prick of the skin we
let out a cry— had not expected it would come, could
not tell where it was from. Along
the field the plants became stronger.
The bulbs below the cracking ground so tightly
holding the ground itself—I thought they must
be the ground Itself—I
came to know this work as pulling a child from its home.
The morning was the beginning of Spring.
Our sweaters came on and off and on again.
The air was new. We continued like this— crouching
to the height of the plant, with all
our strength ripping the body
from the underbellies of the earth.
After hours of work the bed was finally bare.
Our hands and arms had blood dripping from quiet spots.
The ground undone in a new way.
Clumps of self exposed over clumps of deader self.
Yael Herzog is an MFA candidate at Bar Ilan University in Ramat Gan, Israel. She is the recipient of the 2017 Andrea Moriah Poetry Prize. Her poetry has previously appeared in Eclectica Magazine.