Anna Cates
Summer Move
dust resettles
on a country road . . .
empty sky
always in such a hurry
to end up nowhere
July 2006. I pull into the gravel driveway of my parents’ next rental, an old farmhouse, surrounded by cornfields and a row of lonely white pines.
I stand on the lawn with Dad, elderly now, and forced to wear Depends. But due to financial constraints, he still works, as a tutor for a rich man’s foster sons.
The old farmhouse plumbing is sluggish, and they’re worried about rodents. Striving for optimism, I gesture toward the fields. “You’ve got all the free corn you can eat here!”
Dad, who also farmed for many years, peers at the rustling tassels and shakes his head.
“Why not?” I ask, assuming he’s opposed to stealing on moral grounds.
“It’s not fit for human consumption.”
I’m surprised, and almost amused. He’s not opposed to a few free ears of corn, just worried about the quality. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not ‘sweet corn.’ It’s GMO, grown for cattle feed. Too many pesticides.”
My smile fades, as the ire flickers within me. I flail my arms. I can only wonder about the well water.
a coon peers
from a hollow tree . . .
ragged clouds
one day following another
just scraping by
About the Author
Anna Cates lives in Ohio with her two cats, Freddie and Fifi, and teaches writing, literature, and graduate education online. Her most recent poetry collections include The Golem & the Nazi (Red Moon Press) and The Journey (Wipf & Stock).