II: Thick

I'm afraid of drought.
The last year we were in England
the lawns and gardens died and
the earth cracked. The weeds, however,
thrived. My husband tried to kill them.
I can still remember the barbs of
thistle on his hands.
The cracks were voids,
mouths gaping for the rain.
The earth was like a spinster 1
scorched dry by the raging thought of sex.
Now I like to walk in the rain
and think of strawberries sucking at the
moistened soil,
damp, red, rooted creatures full of seed.
All men should have the hands of women
and the driving hips of bulls.