The Accident

My father riding his tractor told me
as we pushed under rows of corn

stalks starched  brown by late August sun
that he was selling out. Developers

had offered a bigger house, money,
neighbors. It didn’t really matter,

he said. The land no longer spoke
his name only the bills. Damn, he said

any idiot knew the schools were better
in the town. He drove on. My father

lizard eyed not saying. As I stood
on the hopper. My fourteenth summer,
 
my one good arm about his waist.
Our lesson learned about the earth
 
the corn
on the corn where saw

I looked to the dirt thought of dead pilrims