Lois Marie Harrod

At the County Fair Lugubrious


The peaches stood
in dark rows like mourners
at a funeral, the zinnias
bowed their heads

as if they knew they had worn
the wrong riot of color.
Some said it was not the rain,
some said it had rained

nine days, enough to carry
the chest of doves
from Mississippi to Spain.
We curled in our coffin

like those lovers
in Plato’s cave, the ones
he forgot to mention,
this time sure that when

he opened the lid
there would be more
light than shadow.
But no, more rain,

and everyone looking
down on us like saints
with gray umbrellas,
even the rabbits

in their rows of wire cages.
Too much sanctity
for so little salt, I said,
thinking of an old theologian

who seemed to be missing
in the damp crowd. I was thirsty
but no one gave me drink.
There’ll be a heaven to pay.

Of course, I knew
I was sick again, weeping
as if the sky were falling,
which it was, in big, fat drops.





Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.






Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook