is lending us money
to keep the farm going,
money to buy seed,
feed loans for our cow,
for our mule,
for the chickens still alive and the hog,
as well as a little bit of feed
for us.
My father was worried about
paying back,
because of what Ma had said,
but Mrs. Love,
the lady from FERA,
assured him he didn’t need to pay a single cent
until the crops came in,
and if the crops never came, then he wouldn’t pay a
thing.
So my father said
okay.
Anything to keep going.
He put the paperwork on the shelf,
beside Ma’s book of poetry
and the invitation from Aunt Ellis.
He just keeps that invitation from her,
glowering down at me from the shelf above the piano.
April 1935