Need, Diane Shakar

     She took everything. Took the paper off the walls, stripped it with her fingernails, stuffed the shredded Dutch girls down her shoes. She took the pails of milk and the toast from the toaster. Took the road that ran back of the house. Took the brook and pocketed the twitching fish. Took nozzles, hoses, finials, beeswax, larches, conifers. Took the clothespins off the line, cut the line and took that too. If she could have she would have taken the clouds from the sky but couldn’t reach them even from the tallest ladder leaning against the wooden walls of the garage. She ripped up the yard instead, every burnt blade of grass, every weed, every dandelion. Then ripped the dress off her back, lay in the tumult, and took the sun.