Samantha Moe


Asha Dore

Saturday on the Farm

Samantha Moe

Young deer, a  god,  mold-girl with a  lamb  full of stars following  her heels,  the  sky falls  apart and
the  forest  is  full of dirt  and  blood,  why  does it  matter,  the  trees  don’t  care about  keeping their
leaves  clean,  knitting  shades  of green  together  until the sky is no longer visible, the problem was
never  the  power,  never  the  way  evening  rinsed  the field like a storm,  not a problem the way the
lantern  sings   and  smacks  against  a  barn’s  sides,  oh  the  barn,  bundles  of  straws  and  benches
waiting  to  be  stained,  she  steps  across  thresholds  and  commands  electricity  in  the house,  she
takes ribs  from her dinner  and makes  new, smaller,  girl-gods whose small hands, smaller than her
pupils,  help  her  pour hot  water  for  tea,  they go  off  in  pairs of two  and three to fetch  her napkin
boxes, they  sleep late  and eat  portobello  mushrooms full  of soup,  they hate clam chowder and the
feeling  of the  refrigerator chill  on  their  skin,  they  don’t  intervene  when the  girl  is on  her knees
again,   bathroom   rug   full of  buttons,   and   outside  no   one  knows  the  weather  or the way  back
home,  no  one  cares  about  protection,  the girl and  the  smaller  girls,  and  they’re  gods with  their
seared  oyster  mushrooms  and  snow  peas,  their  arms  heavy with  enoki  bulbs,  their  eyes full  of 
heartbreak  and their  hair needing  to be combed,  they peel  skin from  cod, they  polish bowls,  they
sing  out the  window in  the night  when  the girl has  cracked her  heart open  and instead  of finding
a  valve  she  finds a  leech,  instead  of finding  salvation she  finds meatballs  and zucchini discs,  she 
finds   hums  and  trumpets  and   pythons,   prosciutto  and  ribbon   pasta  in   a  creamy  wine  sauce,
she unzips her body and out falls eggs, beautiful blushing chanterelle, enchanting girolle, a hedgehog
and  a  history,  a mortal girl  who has  already been  swallowed and killed,  also too,  for no  reason in
particular:  the  beak of  a sparrow, a  noodle  soup her  mother  used  to love,  blanket  fish  and  eagle
rays,  salt  from  a nearby  ocean and  hands  cupping  snails  and  pale  green  mist,  the  gods  all  cry,
crawl  home,  Heaven  opens her  soft arms  and everyone  runs  forward  but some  of  the  lambs  are
missing her arms and some of the girls are devoured by the tall weed grass.

Samantha Moe is the recipient of a 2023 St. Joe community Foundation Poetry Fellowship from Longleaf Writers Conference. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming from Whale Road Review, The Indianapolis Review, Beaver Mag, and others. Her poetry book Heart Weeds is out from Alien Buddha Press and her chapbook Grief Birds is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April ’23. Her full-length Cicatrizing the Daughters is forthcoming from FlowerSong Press. You can find them on social media as @SamAnneMoe.