What does it mean when, across fifty years and a thousand miles, a voice literally reaches out of the sky, Naomi! I did it! Good-bye!
and you dial rapidly, last number you had for her,
to find the nurses scrambling, since they haven’t
even reached her brother yet,
and you say, Now! Now! Let me speak to her!
and they say, You can’t!
so you know she just wanted to alert you,
have you as witness she finally broke free,
same way she used to announce
she was driving into town
in the rattled truck with the crushed bumper—
Good-bye! Try to finish up those rows before you leave, okay?
so you’d know she still had her eye on you
always watching even when she wasn’t present—
you were the only girl at the farm, except for her.
Caroline and her husband, whom you worked for at
twelve,
attempting to impress them with your berry-picking
skills,
tin can looped around your neck. She wasn’t sure you could stand it, spoken day one, but grew impressed by your love for heat, your trance-like gathering.
Years later, whenever you returned to town,
you always stopped to hike up the dirt drive
into sweet-soil-smelling paradise,
flag of honest organic farming
growing more precious in the world.
Caroline, I still love your tomatoes, don’t you?
I hate tomatoes, they smell like work.
Also, I never liked farming, you know, I only loved him.
What?
I was a city girl. Or wanted to be.
Seriously?
More layers than anyone can see,
roots threading into soil, tightening the grip,
leaving you standing on the land years after she
called you without a phone, whispering,
Blackberries, tomatoes.
Thank you.
I’m home.
