Origin and Obligation

by Laura Neal
I’m not a woman of the sea,
there are no written myths of me.
I dwell in the far field
a rusted metal rake I wield.
Road lined with pine needles and cone,
you’ll hardly ever find a stone.
Perhaps the skin of moccasin
maybe a squirrel, loose hen.
I’m a shaper of the land, 
when tools break I use my hand.
With hunched back and feet I furrow
witness an opossum in the hedgerow.
Long is the journey from here,
the more I’m far, the more I’m near.
Not drawn by an ocean wave
but by the cry of things depraved.
Hog full-grown its time to slaughter
the eyes go to the eldest daughter.