1934

By
Seventy days of
dust, wind. Dust and wind, wind and
Dust—an ocean made.

My father believes
that rain will come for us soon.
He must believe it.

He wakes each morning,
ears awaiting endless rain
from the endless dust.

Spring is coming on,
Ma says. We’re all whittled down
to the bone, collapsing.

Even the baby
growing inside Ma’s belly
is chapped from the wind.

We continue, though,
not knowing where we would be
without work to do.

But the wheat is not
meant to be here, blown away
or all withered up.

Seventy days of
dust, wind. Dust and wind, wind and
Dust—an ocean swells.





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