The second crop

always comes later— always lies
beneath detritus or the skin of matter;
dead leaves, the fecal, the stuff composted
and left behind when the sweet new rice
or corn was gathered beneath the moon.
Those first white pearls, those little
milky teeth that brown backs bent
to husk and skim: in burlap sacks,
only their shadows trickle down to fill
the mouths that truly hunger.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.