A Prophet in Her Own Country, and: Harvest

A Prophet in Her Own Country, and: Harvest Rachel Rinehart (bio) A Prophet in Her Own Country When spoonfuls of elderberry syrupwon't soothe her breathing, she drivesinto the city in the small hours. A soft throttleeases the asthmatic clutch, and she prayslike Jonah in the minivan's cavernous belly. At home canned goods, diapers, and salvesline the halls for barter in the tribulation, but here,in this waste of bus stops and twenty-four-hour diners,where the urban wild pulses with the heatof summer and Armageddon, she sometimes stops to buy hamburgersfor souls flickering under street lampsand gas station marquees. A wizened dogwheezes faithfully in the backseat, lickingthe grease from a yellow wrapper. It's been nearly three decades since she gave birthwith the moon under her feet, the nurses awedat her silence, a diadem of sweat glisteningin her hair like early morning stars.That time, her fourth, her last, her only boy. How often she must hear the amniontear again, the old lamb's bucket, ancient vasebrimming with the blood of sacrifices, the soundof a dull kitchen knife through leather.How often she must cut him down again from the closet rod, listen to his flannelspart and whisper, see his bruised face caught,upturned, in his shirt sleeves. End Page 160 Harvest At the craft fair someone tapes two newsprint photosto a bulk jar of peanut butter, saws a hasty slitthrough the lid. It is clearthere has been a terrible accident.At left, a girl grins, sixteen, dandling a volleyball.Red curls thrash and seethe at her shoulders,brimming the soft curves of her hips.At right, there is only scalp, raw-shinedand seamed with blood. How it has come to this, we must imagine: A boy watches from the bleachersthe eve of it all, watches the supple archof the girl's torso, the white ball glowingin the aerie of her forearms, her lithe bodytossed and buoyed by a tumult of hair.Later, as dark drops low behind the schoolhe kisses her—her hair gloweringlike a kiln between them. Handful after handfulhe gathers and parts it. Deep he blundersthrough billow and cinder, scouringher blouse for buttons. It is late when she slips, bearing still her heat,up the back stairs to her bedroomand early when her father wakes herhaving sensed in his bones, as farmers do,that subtle shift in pressure, night cupped snugto the horizon's pinking lip. How many timeshas he warned her to tie back her hair, to knot ittightly at the nape of her neck? But this morningthey are tired and hurry against the rain.Silent, she stands between silo and wagon,tranced by dust eddying off the corn.Out of this she conjures him, the boy, his mouthsearching the smooth hollow of her collarbone,and dizzy with sleep, she thrills, tips— End Page 161 her hair floats again, for a moment, abovethe auger's gnashing torque. After they bear her away, there is leftonly blood glinting blackly in the dawn,and hair wound red like ribbon in the flighting.Because he must, her father takes his corn embroideredto market, and, come spring, birds' nests gleamlike pennants in the trees, shot throughwith fine red thread. A week after it happens the boy comes to visit.In the kitchen he lingers, thinkingof the red drop of her mouth.From the threshold he sees them, the girland her mother, sitting in front of the television.Lightly, her mother unwinds the gauze.Underneath: the green sheen of ointmentover fester. He cannot. For years he dreams her hair bloomingin his mouth, in his eyes. It curls around his necklike silk. Shorn, she wanders about himsheaving it in baskets. End Page 162 Rachel Rinehart rachel rinehart's poetry collection The Church in the Plains was selected by Peter Everwine as the winner of the 2016 Philip Levine Poetry Prize and was published by Anhinga Press in January 2018. She lives...