Farming - by Jill


The worst frickin thing
you can be told to do
when you are
already
angry
is "Weed the beans."

But Mom's particular ferocity
sent me out
to the hammering sun,
where I sat on my butt
scootching downrow
as I pulled tiny leaflets,
and dontcha know,
two hours later
riding the rhythm of the earth
I didn't mind
the ant on my ankle
the sweat on my neck
the way Jessup taunted me that
I was going to fail French.

Mothers are so
right.