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Country Life


They came for land. For hog-high wheat to Dixon, Weeping
         Water, Garland Falls;
came to Midland hamlets, made their farms from bogs & marshes,
fens & bottomland: immigrants from Krakow, Darkov, Lasko
 

who fled famine, coming wars or the Eastern factories, left
city rivers thick with indigo & slaughter's crimson, tenement
air: TB & boiled tubers, fled the bellows & gutter cast, sawdust
         & accident;
 

left forever what Riis called the strip of smoke colored sky so that
their children's children might grow up corn-fed, reverent,
thrifty; that they might join 4-H & raise lambs, might
 

crochet & macramé; might play the clarinet or their fathers'
         accordions, always
optimistic despite the blizzards & drought, locust & blight.
Where there's space to push the earth aside: that's the place
 

to raise a child—here amid arrival's plenty: starch & punch
         in a church basement;
even so a century later their descendants hear another music
over the television, the civics lesson, over the highway's drone:
 

a white noise off the flat plain, an echo of the empty well's
         temptation,
as if something in them yearns after all for chimney spill, the gritty
         stink of war,
how else to explain how some came to worship this caustic god,
 

taking in their bodies his small poison, in abandoned barns
         & chicken coops:
battery acid, lye, brake cleaner, Sudafed, salt & red sulfur—
Was it to hear clearly the deep corn's chorus, maybe; maybe
 

to be nightwind, milkweed, goldenrod, chaos & immersion: to be
         the intolerable
wild unplowed field, to be the one elm black with starlings?
Those whose parents thought they'd never be suppliants, never
 

wilt or starve—but we've seen them in mug shots, baffled
& sallow, broken as those girls in sweatshops going blind,
or the rawboned young Spinner in a Carolina Mill 1901
 

or the miners' families evicted or the garment workers corralled:
faces smeared & scattered as blossoms before the plow; all
catastrophically struck in the light of their own interminable
 

now, weary, girding themselves, helpless before the lens.


Amy Beeder

Now Make an Altar
Carnegie Mellon University Press


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