lots

this is my lot
we each have our own lot

a lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s field

a lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s hand

a lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a key

a key to a room
a skeleton key

we each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my room

is a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’t

some rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fields

with broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soil

the wife of lot
looked back & now

seasons all our
solitary suppers