After misreading the title of Muriel Rukeyser’s Third Elegy, “The Fear of Form”
What would that be? The row upon row upon row
then stupid turn of the tractor & back
grain elevator, combine, machine loose on
the hillside, turned over, the bloody arm
the stink of hogs, of pigs, of money
Hot humid afternoons with hay sticking to hands
& legs, hair matted to brow & neck
bees roused by the baler, swarming—
a gray cloud of hot sting on face & arms
white scar tissue where
the pot of boiling water for sterilizing Mason jars
tilts & scalds forearm & top of foot
in the shape of a sandal strap
Copperheads come quick from the cool foundation
of the root cellar first warm day
& nests of black snakes open out across the field
adrenaline rush of hop & jump over them
Rat poison rust & splinters, the catch of blades
bats swooping low the rabid, unpredictable
rumble of black bears over the picnic table
the girlish scream of the bobcat
Always something doesn’t work needs to be fixed
have to drive three places for parts
all day on edge lost time in repair
lost days of rain
Dark in the morning already tired up at first light
no mind for reading or thinking, low ceilings
picture a bumper crop good corn, early
more help with the haying
then supper & evening chores an hour on the front porch
check next day’s weather on TV
Even in sleep the fields are flooded
cattle loud & thin at the barn door
the slightest lack of attention
can kill self or other constant alertness
& no one to take my place
Who else would plough this land?
Who, if not I, will do all this?
from Dear AllFind more by Maggie Anderson at the library
Copyright © 2017 Maggie Anderson
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.