winters plowing, only at night. The field has a sweet kind of stink, when you think about it GOD’S ACRE really ought to mean a wheat field. They say a good person is as good as a piece of bread, at least that’s what the teachers teach the children.
The red kite sits motionless on the field as though its belly were impaled on the stubble. The sky sees that the stubble field is empty and hard and that the bird’s belly is soft, and rolls out two white clouds while the stubble sucks the bird’s belly dry. The driver’s eyes twitch in the corners, the blackthorn is studded with bluish green spheres and isn’t afraid of the bus wheels.
But you can’t tell children that a person is as good as a piece of bread, says the driver, otherwise they’ll believe it and won’t be able to grow anymore. And you can’t tell that to old people either, they can sense when you’re lying and then they’ll shrink until they’re as small as the children because they never forget anything. His Adam’s apple hops from his chin into his shirt. My wife and I, he says, the only time we talk is at night, when we can’t sleep. My wife wants to be good, so she doesn’t buy bread. The driver laughs, the potholes jerk his gaze onto the field, but I end up buying it anyway, he says. We eat it and like it, my wife too. She eats and cries and is getting older and fat. She’s a better person than me, but who’s really good these days. When she can’t bear it anymore instead of screaming she goes to throw up. He tucks his shirt in his pants. She vomits quietly, so the neighbors don’t hear anything, he says.
* * *
The road turns into the field and the truck comes to a stop, the children hop off into the grass. The wheatgrass is deep and swallows them up to the waist. Flies come buzzing out of the tomato crates. The sun has a red belly, the tomato field stretches far into the valley.
The agronomist is waiting by the crates, his tie flapping in front of his mouth. He bends over, inspects his pants and picks off the blades of wheatgrass. But the blades cling to his sleeves and back, they hike up his body faster than he can pick them off. Mother of all grass, he curses. He checks his watch, the dial burns in the sun and so does the wheatgrass. The blades shine with greed, the grass will stop at nothing to extend its reach. It even attaches itself to the wind. If it weren’t in the field, it would be in the clouds, and the world would be smothered with wheatgrass.
The children pick up the crates, flies settle on the wart clusters. The flies are drunk from fermented tomatoes, they sparkle and they sting. The agronomist raises his head, closes his eyes and shouts, today’s the last time I’m saying it, you’re here to work, every day ripe tomatoes are left hanging and green ones are picked and red ones get trampled on the ground. A blade of wheatgrass dangles from the corner of his mouth, he tries to find it with his hand but can’t, you’re a disgrace to your school, he screams, you’re doing more harm than good to our national agriculture. He locates the blade with the tip of his tongue and spits it out, fifteen crates a day, he says, that’s the quota. You can’t drink water all day, there’s a half-hour break at twelve o’clock, that’s when you can eat, drink, and go to the bathroom. A clump of thistle fluff is stuck in his hair.
The children set off into the field two by two, the empty crates swaying between them. The handles are slippery from squashed tomatoes, the plants themselves are poisonous green spotted with red. Even the smallest suckers. The wart clusters pick themselves bloody, the red tomatoes stupefy the children’s eyes, the crates are deep and never full. Red juice oozes from the corners of the children’s mouths, tomatoes fly around the heads and explode and color even the thistle clumps.
A girl sings:
I walked along a path above
And chanced upon a maid below
* * *
The girl puts a
The red kite sits motionless on the field as though its belly were impaled on the stubble. The sky sees that the stubble field is empty and hard and that the bird’s belly is soft, and rolls out two white clouds while the stubble sucks the bird’s belly dry. The driver’s eyes twitch in the corners, the blackthorn is studded with bluish green spheres and isn’t afraid of the bus wheels.
But you can’t tell children that a person is as good as a piece of bread, says the driver, otherwise they’ll believe it and won’t be able to grow anymore. And you can’t tell that to old people either, they can sense when you’re lying and then they’ll shrink until they’re as small as the children because they never forget anything. His Adam’s apple hops from his chin into his shirt. My wife and I, he says, the only time we talk is at night, when we can’t sleep. My wife wants to be good, so she doesn’t buy bread. The driver laughs, the potholes jerk his gaze onto the field, but I end up buying it anyway, he says. We eat it and like it, my wife too. She eats and cries and is getting older and fat. She’s a better person than me, but who’s really good these days. When she can’t bear it anymore instead of screaming she goes to throw up. He tucks his shirt in his pants. She vomits quietly, so the neighbors don’t hear anything, he says.
* * *
The road turns into the field and the truck comes to a stop, the children hop off into the grass. The wheatgrass is deep and swallows them up to the waist. Flies come buzzing out of the tomato crates. The sun has a red belly, the tomato field stretches far into the valley.
The agronomist is waiting by the crates, his tie flapping in front of his mouth. He bends over, inspects his pants and picks off the blades of wheatgrass. But the blades cling to his sleeves and back, they hike up his body faster than he can pick them off. Mother of all grass, he curses. He checks his watch, the dial burns in the sun and so does the wheatgrass. The blades shine with greed, the grass will stop at nothing to extend its reach. It even attaches itself to the wind. If it weren’t in the field, it would be in the clouds, and the world would be smothered with wheatgrass.
The children pick up the crates, flies settle on the wart clusters. The flies are drunk from fermented tomatoes, they sparkle and they sting. The agronomist raises his head, closes his eyes and shouts, today’s the last time I’m saying it, you’re here to work, every day ripe tomatoes are left hanging and green ones are picked and red ones get trampled on the ground. A blade of wheatgrass dangles from the corner of his mouth, he tries to find it with his hand but can’t, you’re a disgrace to your school, he screams, you’re doing more harm than good to our national agriculture. He locates the blade with the tip of his tongue and spits it out, fifteen crates a day, he says, that’s the quota. You can’t drink water all day, there’s a half-hour break at twelve o’clock, that’s when you can eat, drink, and go to the bathroom. A clump of thistle fluff is stuck in his hair.
The children set off into the field two by two, the empty crates swaying between them. The handles are slippery from squashed tomatoes, the plants themselves are poisonous green spotted with red. Even the smallest suckers. The wart clusters pick themselves bloody, the red tomatoes stupefy the children’s eyes, the crates are deep and never full. Red juice oozes from the corners of the children’s mouths, tomatoes fly around the heads and explode and color even the thistle clumps.
A girl sings:
I walked along a path above
And chanced upon a maid below
* * *
The girl puts a
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