We Must Be in the Harvest Again

The end of summer

and our jalapeño plant

is wilting, its stem brittle

as the heat peels

away from us,

though we swore,

like every August,

that we would die

from it—I have, too, thought

of my great-grandfather, peeling

sweet corn in the heat.

My living room

smells of the soil

he tracked into his home. It’s ruthless

in how it doesn’t fade: walking

on the balls of my feet,

I pretend I know

how everything would unfold

while husking. How the skin

would break, the crop

yellow and stringy,

tinged with dirt. There’s a tale

told in my family

that says our people grew

straight from between

the rocks: ankles rooted

in tilled earth, skin smelling

of good loam, our bodies

the first wild crops—

there’s a lot about farming

I should know,

but don’t. It’s cruel

how strong the smell is,

some nights. How habitually

it reminds me

of the place

I am not. My father

brings home a sheaf

and I crack into one

by the stem. Bury

my pointer finger

in its twine

like I’m seeding my body

into its roots, like I’m belonging

to this land

instead of searching

for a way

back into it.