Spring 2008 [Issue No. 13]
Town Girl Goes Out for Harvest
say the world is a vale of tears,
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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