I’m Covered in It Right Now
All we grow here is cotton stalks. Thirsty weed
that sells. When summer leaves, look out:
the high ground will be fogged by bolls
the size of testicles, every inch; a reap of what
we have for what we want; of what we want.
Thirsty, but it sells. The enginepickers would lift
three, four rows, the heads and the seeds. Now
it’s all handwork: pull the lint pure. Quiet,
the labor; quiet the greed. Today I watched
a mother and son shop the market. The Kid led
that tired woman like she wore a leash. Last night,
the fox traded his hollow for two rats. Before that,
the rats ate trash because it’s all we had. Commerce.
Every action, exchange. With cotton you can stuff
your white ears white. You can swaddle your tongue
dumb. Do you understand? I mean to explain
the high demand.