Rose Auslander

Des Moines

You with the balance sheet in your hand,

you don’t know me

by looking at me.

Plant my kind

and we grow

starchy, yellow, industrial grade.

You and I suckled on petroleum

sweet in our veins,

bleeding grass.

So plant me and I’ll grow,

prairie satin, silky wild rye,

swaying in the wind,

rolling in white clover,

I’ll feed and harvest you.

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