The Farm
by Michael S. Harper

It is inside her,
but it lasts forever,
and in Minnesota
we have traveled
to Roaring Stony
on a honeymoon
your father
recommended.

He was a gruff
and uncivil
man, but his laugh
was raucous, bold,
hungry for your mother,
who was also bold,

the jam of a chokecherry
on her breast & abdomen.

Early morning
in the snow
and you were born
almost in a wagon
and soon
the family
left the farm.

I have walked over
the surfaces
of slough & oak
and touched cheap
cars in the orchard,
and watched your father

not farm
but hunt
for mink
to put 'round your shoulders.

You were sugar to him,
your mother's favorite,
but not as sweet
to me as farina
because of the farm.

We should have caught
the waters of Roaring Stony
as the mythic spring
from the Sioux
because your mother was dark
false Solomon's seal
and hungry
for the Farm Labor Party
after her father lost everything.