Holden never caught me in the rye

woman wearing white dress standing in the middle of grasses

Photo by Le Ngoc Tan on Pexels.com

The thing about rye is how it sticks to your clothes
I used to run through the braids like barbers in ghettos
had an old man that spoke to me like an old man, and I was
he told the skies over Montego bay were barbicide blue in winter
and they were, he died on the floor on young hair loved him I did, and I did.
The thing about rye is that it only takes a sawfly to bend it close to breaking
there are birds that fall from sky as blossoms are awaking.
Holden never caught me for he never saw me fall
some of us hide in plain sight that’s all.

The thing about rye is how the harvest is so short
some make scarecrows of a bad crop yet the crows are on to us,
Holden has lost his voice, lost his eyes, walks around in crop circles,
some will walk to the edge and there is nothing you can do but part the rye,
there is nothing you can do but let the bird fall but in the falling my love it will fly.

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