She comes from a flat earth

See the place where fresh cut

grass & scent of old musty hay

chokes out

the taste of diesel fuel.

A beautiful land, but

life hangs tough. Even

the chittering racoon

(who’d find a chicken sleeping

at the edge

of the coop, pull it live

-one inch at a time-

through the fence. Chew it clean.)

has mouths to feed.

Here cornfields blind the summer

driving, sing crinkled oceans

of beige in the fall, turn away

mice in the winter.

Local children are not afraid

to run through laser sharp

leaves, wear blisters

or band-aides proudly.

Here a good crop can mostly

keep farmers afloat, almost

until next harvest (and the rest

of the world will keep ticking

without having to know

what it takes

to guide cycles of mother and reap).

Where do I come from?

The place where concrete stops.