Saturna

Inside the draughty hangar
we would sort and pack 
the heavy crop that broke
our backs to excavate
with boot on spade
and frozen hands,
beneath a light that 
generated heat for 
twice the working rate.

A pair of rabbit kits 
halted production as 
the rollers shunted them 
against the chute’s steel wall. 
Soft as wet clay 
aborted by the harvester, 
they shook in the machine’s 
cold arms, and we knew 
that we had reaped too much.


(an earlier version pub. by Atrium) 

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