cutivation

Topping Tobacco With My Father

In the cool morning we heave flat yellow

stones plucked from red earth into the green bowl

of the cow pond, trampled verge abandoned

with the first electric jolt, minute jots

of vanished life we catch from the corners

of our eyes, dreading the wicked curve of

the topping knife wielded up and down long

hot rows of Burly, a curse for each and

every flower lopped and trammeled under-

foot, sweat a beacon, ravenous insects

buzzing with frustration at the margins,

thwarted by the nicotine miasma

in which we school, swimming to dinner time

and a naked plunge in the branch, neat rows

of brown rib shed water across thin white

haunches, cow licks curling like paint peeling

in ribbons, parting on the sharp blade of

a promise; thumbs neatly sliced, penknife wiped

clean on the bib of your overalls, a

vow to reunite on the other side

of the mountain, certain as sunrise our

thin pale scars will burn hot as we home in.

Children; how could we know love demands a

deeper cut, a blood-letting, earth soaked red?