hometown progress

May 4, 2011 § Leave a comment

at dawn, the
men are in the field.
the children
crawl up to the
sill and
look out under the spell
of tall grass and
gold grain.
what is my father
or yours but a pillar
of the land,
this land, and the
widening shadow of our
the women turn over
in their beds. they
let out a sigh that parts the
pale bedroom curtain and
their dreams (of what)
depart from the lungs
like a band of wild horses:
the women are
never herded,
racing against the horizon,
racing against progress,
they float above the heads of
our men, anticipating
the shade of supper.
today, the cabbage is
just sour. the children
think the soil is fermenting
and the men get drunk on
the fantasies of his son
or daughter
and the women dig
our food out of the ground.
the dinner table is as
flat as the farmland.


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