Durum wheat’s taller
this summer, or else
the Ropp widow is
shrinking. She never
kicks the feral cats
anymore, just glares
down at her sandals,
their dermis of mud
growing one unfelt
layer more real with
every step. Frowning
to remember words
next to the burned out
barn, she stops to spit
a hex at the half-
bus, twice daily puff
of fumes and special
children. As soon as
the combine turns east
for Minot – bin-dried
grain settling yet in
folded steel – she will
follow its raw voice.
The hardest of wheats,
Triticum durum,
she will tire and seep
unsaved and unspool.
