A Field of Sunflowers

A Field of Sunflowers

are the most grotesque of all fruit.
They stare into me
as if I were looking down the gullet
of a squawking bird
with an open beak;
vocal chords removed.

They are spindly,
hulking old men,
shaming with judiciary stiffness.
Their silent verdict of me
like a deep stab to the chest
with a rubber knife.

I see an accusing God in their loveless,
shapeless faces
and I am Adam,
I am Eve,
I cower.

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