164
Where I come from,
life revolves around the cycle of crops and cows-
it's planting season, it's harvest season, it's calving season, it's selling season.
It's the only life you know, and you love it.
You may not like the nearby town, but the farm is your home,
and no matter where you go, the farm will always be a part of you.
Where I come from,
the smells of the farm are second nature to you,
and you love each and every one of them.
Burnt hair during brandings. Wet silage. Cut hay.
The smell of rain and of snow. Milk replacer.
Even after it rains and the smell of cow shit comes out in full force-
it's horrible, absolutely, but you love it still.
Where I come from,
summer nights are spent watching the last embers of a bonfire glow
the residual heat shielding your body from the night's chill,
the conversations of the people around you
protecting your heart from the chill of loneliness.
Where I come from,
punishment comes in the form of pitching hay, or laying pipe,
or digging up musk thistles, or pumping gas, or pounding posts.
But it's not so bad sometimes.
When you're out there all alone with only the sounds of nature
and your own screaming muscles to keep you company,
you're finally free to sing to the sky.
And so you sing, relinquishing all your troubles to the sun.
Where I come from,
at night, when the summer heat has yet to abate,
you trade your blanket for the spread of June bugs attached to your window
and let the cicadas scream you to sleep.
Where I come from,
you leave the tap open just a smidge all winter, every winter,
so the pipes can't completely freeze through. And if a snowstorm knocks out the power,
you and your family all move to the living room and snuggle together for warmth.
The generator isn't working- Dad will go look at it in the morning.
Where I come from,
the town is three miles away, but it's still the town you belong to.
There, you're never alone. You can't be. The other 163 people won't let you.
They mask their nosiness behind a sense of community,
especially those old church ladies who have nothing to do but sit and gossip.
Where I come from,
You'll find that your name is the most important thing about you-
your surname may as well be a goddamned prophecy,
the family you're born into having the power to pave the entire path of your life.
Where I come from,
secrets are a dangerous thing to have.
When everyone knows everyone,
secrets never stay secrets, and secrets become gossip,
and gossip becomes a weapon to be used against you.
Be careful with what you say. Pretend you're in court.
Anything you say can and will be held against you.
Where I come from,
despite your hatred of the claustrophobia of small-town life,
you actually prefer the greater isolation of the farm,
where the only listening ears are those of the corn.
Where you can scream your secrets to the heavens,
and the only ones that will hear you are the cows.
Don't worry, babe, they won't tell anybody.
Where I come from,
you gain stories and experience that always shock the city people you meet.
You love the looks on their faces.
Yes, you've pulled a calf. Yes, you can drive a tractor.
Yes, you've wrangled a wild calf to the ground during branding.
Yes, you graduated with only 17 in your class.
Yes, everyone knows everyone, and yes, it fucking sucked.
Where I come from,
You hate it. God, you hate it. You can't wait to get away.
And in the stillness of the night,
you can almost hear the wind whispering to you,
"Run, darling, run. Run far away and never look back,
because if you look back, they will find a way to make you stay,
and they will never let you go again."
YOU ARE READING
My Poetry
PoetryOne day, a girl was given an assignment in English class. She had to write three odes, three haikus, and three free verse. She had only written her first three odes, when she was told they were too long, and she had to start over. She wasn't sure wh...
