portion of the artwork for Todd Clay Stuart's poetry

Todd Clay Stuart

I wrecked my Harley
in the rain, broke
three of my favorite
ribs, tore up my leg,
punctured a lung,
ended up face down
in a loamy ditch beside
a corn field just begging
to be harvested. I heard ears
confess their love for each other.
I heard stalks say their goodbyes.
I heard what you can only hear
dying in a ditch in Indiana
in early October. A psalm, a prayer,
an entire farm whispering

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022