Carla Schwartz: Farm Life

I’ve called off the folks who bale their hay—
the grasses—growing in my fields—
that now sway quietly in the wind

I called the hunter, who from the blind
he’d built in my stand of pines
picked off deer in his sights,

to say he’d not be hunting here
anymore. There, look, a doe,
her fawn chewing the raspberries—

plants and all—berries my wife
won prizes with—
I haven’t gathered since she’s gone

and now can’t see well enough
to pick the fruit with these clouds
in my eyes. The sky

has begun to cloud. I had the pool
I used to tend filled in. My wife—
no longer around to swim.

Today the hunter shared his last
venison—he brought it in marinade—
I asked would he also bring

a six pack, no, a case, oh a six.
How much longer will it take
before I empty my fridge,

before I’m done with all this?



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