Beth Bachmann | Poetry

In the field of horseheads and empty drums,

neither was made of skin, so what

was the oil for? My heart’s welling,

I said. Give rope. Jackpump,

then consume me, love. The thirsty birds

had no feathers

for wicking water. No feathers for camouflage or attraction

or flight. We hot-blued the gun

to protect it. Against the sky, the horseheads, the birds began to rust.