Anhydrous ammonia for fertilizer. Permethrin for root worm and corn
bore. Glyphosate for weed control that clears a path for the
combine. John Deere converting #2
dent corn and diesel into dextrose,
ethanol. Exactly how many ears end up as
fructose or flakes? Farmers have always been
gamblers, betting on growing seasons and genetics. Grit might get you to
harvest, but you’ll need hydrochloric acid to make high fructose syrup.
In my memory, in the Ago (short or long being
just a matter of relativity)—back to the
kernel, so to speak, of who I am—there was
light through sharp green leaves. And
mud—uneven clumps, the naked flesh of fields. At
night the creak of stalks growing.
Our 500-acre garden. Twist of bean, swish of wheat,
pollen-drenched breeze,
quiet wind. For drama, the unending battle with deer and
raccoons. We’d walk
sweet rows with bare feet
to leave our scent. Fingering silk tassels and an occasional
ugly lump of smut, its
velvet, bulbous surface
wet from dew. Corn with generous
xenia for all: the smut, the coon, the child, the wind. My memory
yields bushel after bushel, which is a lot of
zeal for a crop I never intended to harvest.
First published in Wild Roof Journal. Issue 17 (November)
—
Sara Dovre Wudali is a 2023–2024 Loft Mentor Series Fellow in poetry and has received support from the Minnesota State Arts Board and the Metropolitan Regional Arts Council. Her poems and essays have been published in literary journals such as under the gum tree, Barrelhouse, and Blood Tree Literature. She is the editor of the hybrid anthology chapbook, All You Need Is One Avocado.
