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.
Source: Poetry (June 2025)