A Few Reasons We Left The Farm
by Benjamin Clark
The mulberry tree we found planted
horizontal in my second-story
window. Roots strangling the twin-
bed I had left for the safety
of the basement hours before.
The old farm wife who did not stop at the stop
sign, instead buried her husband’s
truck into the crumbling earth of my father’s
Oldsmobile, then blamed shotgun
holes in the stop sign and the height of the corn.
The height of the corn
when we had nothing
to do with growing it.
Grandma pruning Grandpa’s
branches and moving into town.
Leaving him, to tend her own
apple, lemon, and peach trees,
a garden of rhubarb and spices.
Sugar’s spilling
face, dangling red
and white fur clinging to
her jaw. Dog whimpers. Coyotes
attacking in packs.
Siblings sniffling
in packs. Allergies
prowling our city
bodies like wild dogs.
The story I told at breakfast
to scare my siblings. The rat
that clambered across the safety
of my quilt the night before.
The same rat that mom caught
before breakfast in a trap
too small, its top half
still squirming, squealing, until
her iron skillet found its skull.
Dad shaking, sobbing after
burning the leaves and trash
in the incinerator, and discovering
our cat’s first litter inside.
horizontal in my second-story
window. Roots strangling the twin-
bed I had left for the safety
of the basement hours before.
The old farm wife who did not stop at the stop
sign, instead buried her husband’s
truck into the crumbling earth of my father’s
Oldsmobile, then blamed shotgun
holes in the stop sign and the height of the corn.
The height of the corn
when we had nothing
to do with growing it.
Grandma pruning Grandpa’s
branches and moving into town.
Leaving him, to tend her own
apple, lemon, and peach trees,
a garden of rhubarb and spices.
Sugar’s spilling
face, dangling red
and white fur clinging to
her jaw. Dog whimpers. Coyotes
attacking in packs.
Siblings sniffling
in packs. Allergies
prowling our city
bodies like wild dogs.
The story I told at breakfast
to scare my siblings. The rat
that clambered across the safety
of my quilt the night before.
The same rat that mom caught
before breakfast in a trap
too small, its top half
still squirming, squealing, until
her iron skillet found its skull.
Dad shaking, sobbing after
burning the leaves and trash
in the incinerator, and discovering
our cat’s first litter inside.
Beard, Beers, Bears
by Benjamin Clark
This year-old-beard, the beers
in my fridge, the sadness hibernating
in my body like a family of bears
will not survive the summer months.
I will chew off layers of my face
with dull scissors, and send the hair
in green glass bottles to my closest
friends. With these same friends,
I will share the beer sweating
through evenings singing in the sun-
room. And the bears will leave
the cave, to rollick and rampage,
to seek out food for the winter
cold, and will only return home
when their stomachs are filled
and snow storms hunt the sky.
in my fridge, the sadness hibernating
in my body like a family of bears
will not survive the summer months.
I will chew off layers of my face
with dull scissors, and send the hair
in green glass bottles to my closest
friends. With these same friends,
I will share the beer sweating
through evenings singing in the sun-
room. And the bears will leave
the cave, to rollick and rampage,
to seek out food for the winter
cold, and will only return home
when their stomachs are filled
and snow storms hunt the sky.
Benjamin Clark spent his formative years in rural Nebraska and now lives in Chicago, Illinois. He will be attending the School of the Art Institute this fall (2010) as a Creative Writing MFA student. He regularly attends the Vox Ferus writing workshops, and will have his first full-length collection of poetry published by Write Bloody Publishing in early 2011.