Yes, I know

©2009 By Alice Walker

Yes, I know I am not
A farmer
And that you
Are
Not
A gypsy
Or a king:
Did you ever
Hear
Of
Poetic license?
It is when
For instance
The Poet
Writes
Buffaloes
Instead
Of buffalo
Because
Their
Numbers
Are now
So
Thin
&
She
Does
 Not
Want
The remaining
Tiny
Herds
To feel
Lonely.

I claim
Farming ancestry:
Generations
Going back
Sometimes
Farther
Than
I wish
To look:
All those Africans
& Their
Yam & cassava fields
The Indians &
Their corn
&
Beans
The English
& Their
Collard plants
The Scots
Their
What?
Crab grass? 
Maybe oats!
The Irish
Their potatoes
The elves
Their
Herbs.

All killing themselves
Now
By the thousands
Farmers
Killing themselves
By
Their own
Calloused
Hands;
Not just
In India
Where suicide
Among
Farmers
Is
A leading cause
Of
Death
But in
America
Too
They are doing
It.

How can this be?
And how can
We
Bear
The
Loss?

So I claim
Them
In
Myself:
I
Am
That.

I too
Run after
The earth
As it disappears
Beneath
My feet;

I too
Mourn
Machines moving
Over Her face
Without
Empathy
Or
Love
Of
Her.

Even so,
You are
Quite right:
I am not
A “farmer”
As most
Would think
Of
It:
Tilling my tiny
Plots
Of corn
&
Beans
Collards
&
Squash;
Strawberries:
Leaning more
&
More
On the strength
& Youth
Of
Others
As time
Moves on.

No, I was born to grow,
Alongside my garden of plants
Poems
Like
This one:

YOU CONFIDE IN ME

You confide
In me
That
You
Are lonely,

That Romance
Juicy
&
Red
Never stays
Long
At
Your
House.

But when
I visit
You
What
Do I
Find?

You do not
Own
A
Sofa!

Without
A sofa
Preferably
Burgundy
Or maroon
You cannot
Expect
To
Have Romance
Come
&
Stay
In your
House.

A sofa is
Essential
To all
That
Lures
Romance
To
Your boudoir;

I cannot
Believe
You are
So old
&
Do not
Know
This.

Well, lucky
For you
I am older!

Trying to have
Romance
Sit down,
Visit
&
Decide to
Stay
With
You
When you have
No sofa
On
Which
To sit
Is like
Using one
Hand
In the
Vast
Ocean
To
Catch
A
Large
Fish.