The Collective, 1950
after Marina Razbezhkina’s Harvest TimeShe jumps from the combine as if it were burning, leaps over windrows to a crying child, sucks a thorn from his foot, washes him in ravine runoff. Her husband, legless from the war, watercolors her in a bright green scarf – a gift for the rescue. Harvests are white as homespun, wheat on the threshing floor, light cut by dust motes, as butterflies that sift the fields, get stranded in bedrooms at night like pieces of torn sleeves. Like the white horse she must have dreamed.