Sunday, July 10, 2011
Tomato Truck Parade
Red flesh and yellow seed.
Every elephant bears something bright and private,
touches trunk to tail to trunk to thin trail
of grayish exhaust.
San Joaquin. I have difficulty
guarding my senses
of scale and boundary.
Asleep beside me,
you missed the almond grove of eyes.
Fresno knows the contents of our cupboards
better than you or I understand ourselves
as organs and fuel.
The mountains are not mountains,
but walls of a conduit.
The highway not a highway, but a manic spine.
Movable hive cities, silver wheels
of irrigation, spurting.
One field glitters plastically,
tied with tinsel to ward off the birds
who swoop in unison like flags on a baton
moved by huge, invisible hands.
Abby Gambrel loves Milwaukee despite and because of its seasons. She teaches English and Creative Writing at Cardinal Stritch University.