I’ve known what chairs I’d like to sit in
All my life. I’ve known what fields
I’d like to farm. I watch that stony man
And know that sowing only yields
According to the weather. For some
Our lives are wintertime and heated bricks.
Hard ground and fallow cribs. I’ve come
This far without a man. I’m fixed—
A woman with an income and some use.
My back is straight, my Bible thumbed.
I’m held in high regard by Dartmoor’s
Finest men. The women, if they choose,
May compliment my roasts. My hair is tamed.
My hands, at night, are pinioned by the stars.