The Husband
by David Allen

A fraying rope has my girl
above the harvest between
two thin hands.
 
From the barrier of the hay loft
we toss our soda bottles
to the Rambler's hood below.
 
Hard cherry candies
the dessert of breakfast
we steal from the market,
save our drinks past
the phylloxera vineyards
back to the loft,
the demoted orchards.
 
Our heads tilt into the hay,
circle out the taste from straws
with a view of the nests
century-bare plum trees hold.
 
I tell her about the bulls
touched on their anuses
by electric prods
stimulating them
into a semen sample
later given to the cows.
 
She says guys are barbed wire
and dolls, wants to be a rancher
who lets her bulls fuck.
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