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 November’s end, to count next year

’s 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.