Poem By Michael Meyerhofer
Forget the wrestlers with quick-
silver torsos and Spartan shoulders,
the sheen of cornstalks like secrets
wrapped in green evening gowns,
sunsets that forgive our clichés
of spilled oxblood and lavender,
lakes where marijuana grows wild
between farm-towns called Osage
or Sioux City after the lost tribes,
teenagers swimming by moonlight.
Forget the impossible darkness
of freshly plowed soil, the heat
from the blacktop along 218,
fields of turnips and bell peppers
and petunias, each seed pulling
a different memory from the earth.
Forget too the full-breasted farm
girl blinking purple-tinted contacts
while she wipes each watermelon
at the fruit stand—just another one
wishing she were somewhere else.