Origami Microchap

Farmlandia - Part 1

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover photo provided by author
Escambia, FL— Cornfield,
McLelland farm 

•

Hardscrabble, 1830

I ride my marshtackie bareback,
small horse fast as hurricane wind
across the unbroken spaces
my long legs draped to one side
dress skirt only, no jeans
on a girl on the hot, dry
Florida prairie. I cook white
biscuits over open fire, stew
fresh brown rabbits I skin
while my man builds us
a little lean-to, thatch palm
for the roof. All night wild
wolves howl, our herd dogs
part wolf, ears up, fangs out.

We graze our future
all our hopes in wild cattle
sinking in the marsh muck
sawgrass ripping wounds, clouds
of mosquitos plaguing us
suffocating cows, we move fast
until we reach white sand, calm ocean
breeze reminding us to relocate
when all the open land is gone, Florida
sold out by the greedy state
to the robber barons, the railroads,
the rest of the unsuspecting world.

-
marshtackie: a breed of horse from
Florida; also called the Florida Cracker Horse

* * *

Homestead, 1888

In the scrub clearing I stand
by the clean green lake
waiting for the coontie bread
to cook flat. No wheat flour
and the bottom scorched
in the iron stove with two
doors, one for the firebox
one for my Indian bread,
burned fingers, the bones
brittle as my long gray hair.

Ripples cross and crisscross
under a soft blue sky
full of the long flights
of white herons and egrets
clots of violet pickerel weed
beneath sea grapes, rookeries
exploding with pink-billed ibis,
pink roseate spoonbills, the hoots
of ducks, coots, Carolina parakeets
sandhill cranes, legs like tuning forks

picking up the lush sounds
of spring in the brush, sweet smells
orange blossoms in the orchards
filling me with fertile, sensory joy.

I return to the hot kitchen shed
to reap what we've sowed
with our dirt scarred hands.

-

coontie bread: made from  any of several
tropical American woody cycads whose roots
and stems yield a starchy foodstuff —
also called arrowroot.

Homeland, 1900s

Grandmother's farm expands by generations
each one bringing more work,
more hard workers to tend
birthing calves and kids, crying babies
nights lit by coal, then oil, electricity
feeding young 'uns in the still dark
jerky and cornpone for the men
cows waiting to be milked in the barn
goats too, bright yellow butter churned
on the split-rail porch.

Afternoons in the vegetable garden
planting, weeding, harvesting
by hand, fat red
tomatoes, crisp string beans
okra, strawberries, collard greens
a small plot of sugar cane
acre upon acre of pure gold
citrus—tart lemons, limes
miles and miles of orange trees
the decades of fostered growth.

We own these orchards, land
we've lived on so long
we had to pay for or lose
pennies per acre, we work
here for our future, investing
for the generations to come
help us survive.

•

Virginia Aronson © 2020

Farmlandia - Part 2

Click title to download PDF microchap

Cover photo provided by author
Escambia, FL — Elena McLelland
Feeding chickens on Sunday

•

Subsidized Farm, 2000

I man the kitchen desk now
phone selling what we ain't got
sweet-talking angry banks
balancing the red zone with
government surplus, regulations
bulk ordering what we need, taking
my place in the global supply chain.

I drive the jeep hard now
over asphalt smooth state roads
to the overcrowded mega-store
for packaged food from far away
boxed and instant, fast and empty
as the old garden, the life I must lead.

I drink beer in the afternoon shade
the fields before me shit-brown
recalling the days of new green
stalks stretching in the sun
harvests like we haven't seen
in cancer-riddled years
despite costly automation
pesticides sprayed, fertilizers
and fumigation, we wear masks
year round and the crops come up
regular now, regular
as the seasons which slip-slide
into a long trough of summer
that never ends.

* * *

Factory Farm, 2020

Animals bring in necessary cash:
you got to stuff them in tight
the long barns, fatten 'em up
with shots and feed, not mind
the stench, the shit they stand in
up to their bellies in offal
those sad dark eyes begging
diseased snouts, skin and fur
feathers plucked by nervous bills
the lows of unhappy beasts.

Animals helped the farm survive
the bad smells floating downwind
ruining local land values, daily life
for sick neighbors and former
friends who ask you to please
clean up the lakes of manure
spillover in creeks and canals.

Animals saved the farm
with hormones and antibiotics
breeds so fat they can't walk
their cesspools full of viruses
bacteria, poisons that leach
into groundwater, your water

and you are sick all the time too
and wondering:
save the farm—for this?

* * *

Family Farm, 2035

Glorious fruit trees, acres of buds
pretty and sweet promising honey
flavored with lemon, mango, lime
the bees plump and circling, dreamy
flights around our orchards.

Lush rows of summer peas
corn, tomatoes, crookneck squash
the soil deep black earth
worms, organic creatures busy
enriching all we grow and eat.

Bountiful hauls of produce to sell,
wild orchids and moon vines, hemp
to make reusable bags for shopping
at the local stands in every town
supporting small farms that feed us.

Heavenly skies, pink sunset clouds
enough rain, enough sun, fresh air
a clean blue lake chock full of life
turtles, black bass and catfish
feed for gators, bear, eagles
red fox living in palmetto scrub.

The glory of lives now gone
back to the future, forward
to a paradise past, our hands
to mouth to mouths, our faces
unmasked and full of gratitude
for what we have yet to lose.

•

Virginia Aronson © 2020