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Firing Order Jesse Graves
I We found no warmth under the open hood, Stranded mid-field where the truck’s engine failed. This work precedes all other, hay baled High, stacked and waiting on the metal bed, Cows in winter, like broken furniture stood Against a wall, braced in zippery wind, Staring out from their mysterious minds, Hipbones like arched frames carved from wood. My job was simple: I held the wrench While his fingers set to work pulling wires, Clearing rust and debris from the engine Block, pocket knife flashing quick and sure. His hands in the open heart of a machine, Old plugs scraped clean enough to carry fire. II The field reveals no human history, Logs none of the hours my father spent Disking its soil, sowing down seeds, back bent Like a tire iron, his fair neck blistered. Bitt Rouse’s sleeve caught in the corn thresher Keeps us careful, mindful of accidents— Blood spilled here seeps through webs of buried roots. Subsoil remembers, but topsoil forgets: Forty summers ago, high heat of June Salting the air, a young man’s good right hand, The one that bowed his famous fiddle tunes, Churned to paste well before the pain began, His feet tearing marks like ancient runes Etched in the dirt, his signature on that land. III Under the pond’s frozen face bright florets Of algae swirl out and spread through the wild Energy of their iced-over lives, Deeper cold approaching with sunset. Late November drawing down, so much less Than it started with, early cold, crops shriveled, The leaves tell it all in colorful wreckage. He remembers, and I do, but the ground forgets. What work gets done today will come again Tomorrow, the day after, on and on, Until he gives out, and the ground reclaims What my father and I set in motion, An engine turning, our family name Stamped on the place that takes us back in. Originally appeared in The Southern Quarterly |
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