guillotine farm

i go out to the orchard where
there once were not enough legs.
some of us ran. others stayed in the shade
of a soon to be felled tree. 
we did not plant corn. we did not plant
squash or even beans. 
i wish i could understand what exactly
this kind of pain sprouts after years
in a body. instead just have the fruit.
my eyes sick with sugar. the first instrument 
blooms by mistake. i see the blade glinting
in the hungry sun. i let it learn
by cutting off my hands. they are now free
as toads to burrow & to sleep.
in the night they wake up to bead. 
they bead flowers & sometimes write 
apology letters to the selves i have never
managed to be. the next plant burst 
from the dirt. it was angry. then another
& another. when my hands grow back
each morning i go out to feed 
the flock. my beautiful little guillotine farm.
every once in while someone comes
& takes advantage of the "pick your own" sign.
they leave with their own monster 
in the back of a truck or a station wagon.
i want to be less afraid. the field gets larger
each & every day. in the dark though,
my hands work. i go out in firefly light.
i whisper to the machines all the uses 
i might have for them. the so-called gods i want 
to slice in half like melons. the leg eaters
& their clean houses. the knives weep.