What I wouldn’t give to climb
the side of my uncle’s truck again
on a hot summer wheat-harvest day
to lean over the side board
and let the combine hopper
pour its payload through my spread fingers.
To take a kernel into my mouth and bite
into it like Dad to test for moisture
to know we had the perfect day
but still worry about finishing
before the evening storms
that always hurry after heat like this.
To cart jugs of iced tea and Dixie cups
from house to field for the men
and to be a little part
of that great harvest scene again.
Or to watch Grandpa on a Saturday afternoon
small ax in hand, select the chickens for Sunday dinner,
to help Grandma pluck on the porch.
It’s not just being ten and innocent again.
It’s to know again where things come from,
that someone’s grandma fed the chickens I eat,
that a real human being touched the wheat
in my bread, to know the name of the steer
whose meat is in my freezer.
To be able to think once more that vegetarians
are a little strange.
To have never heard the word agribusiness.
—
Ed Werstein was 60 years old before his muse awoke and dragged himself out of bed. Since then his poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Stoneboat, Gyroscope Review, Rosebud and many other journals. He has also published four books of poetry. He worked for many years in manufacturing and was very active in his labor union. He has been a lifelong advocate for peace. His website is edwerstein.com.
