OKLAHOMA
It was Johnny-this and Johnny-that
when I was in the field with men
with whiskers – blue bibs with brass buttons
– good lace-up boots to walk the furrows
behind them swamping fruit, the smells
of sweat and purple berries crushed
between the boxes stacked on the wagon,
or rinds of oranges bruised from sack to lug
the Okies picked when I was a boy.
East against an incessant crosswind, huge
flat hand that swept them off to California,
I aim towards the source of sound on my tongue,
its nasal resonance I smear on the page, drawn
to the Sirens’ lilt unraveled in ribbons – leafless
trees bent along the Interstate as if in welcome.