American Gothic

The farmer is in love with his work,

not with you, who are not his wife

but his daughter, plain as the pitchfork.

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clutched in his hand, white as the briefs

around his loins. Some poison

keeps the men away. A thief

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stole Lindy's baby. Soon enough, Japan

will plant its flag in European soil.

You close your eyes and see La Marianne

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barechested on a battlefield of oiled,

Gallic bodies, tramping as if through lanes

of Zea mays. Change is cruel.

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Not long ago, you ate your first sardine.

Bathed in oil, shipped from Nantucket

to Des Moines, it slid pristine,

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headfirst, down your throat. You didn't like it.

The taste stuck to your mouth like tallow

to a frying pan. In the shallow bucket

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of your stomach, you felt a crow's

feet gently begin to kick, a little jerk

keeping time with your heart's adagio.

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[Thanks to Copper Nickel for originally printing this piece.]