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Spring 2008 [Issue No. 13]

POETRY


[Table of Contents]

 

Town Girl Goes Out for Harvest

Kristin Stoner 

Some say the world is a vale of tears,
I say it is a place of soul-making

óJohn Keats

 

He dumps the last load of the day

from tractor to truck, leaves you alone

in the moonless November night,

crisp, cut corn stocks under your feet,

crisp, cutting air in your nose.

 

Five hours you were at the auger, red

and roaring. You stare up, grope for light,

think of that story your mother once told you,

about a farm wife whose arm was torn

from her body. You wonder

 

where she ran, if she ran, if she lived

to see Novemberís end, to count next year

ís weight, shut down tractors

dutifully in time, or if she stood

in the dry dark, face up to the chaos

 

of stars, while her arm lay peacefully,

half-buried in the silo, wondering

if her lips would still be lightly turned

up when they found her.

 

 

 

 

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