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  • Barn Swallows, and: Edith, and: The Field at Rest
  • Jesse Graves (bio)

BARN SWALLOWS

They made a sound like windcoming to life, ignition that alwaysstartled me, though I knewthe swallows would be sleeping there.They hid where I wanted to hide,up in the rafters, up above the loft,above the broken tobacco sticks,unstrung bales of hay, cracked tires,barbed edges of nails, staples, and wire.

The barn gave work and shelterfrom work, and late in the fall,when leaves began to gather uptheir transient colors and scatterinto hidden corners to crumble,cracks in the barn walls whistledand chimed, made soft music,like rows of flutes and violinsplayed by an orchestra of ghosts.

I came there to play child-gamesamong the throwaway parts,build obstacle courses for brightmetal cars to race through.I came there to disappear,become a vessel for any messagethe birds wanted to deliver,wings fluttering along my spine,voices like tiny bells in my ears. [End Page 24]

EDITH

My job was to pour the moldfor the hard porcelain crownsthat sat on telephone poles.I rode the bus to the plant,even when they called it“the scab bus.” I wasn’t proudto take someone else’s job.My husband was sick in bed,and I needed the money.I was willing to work hardwhen others wouldn’t do it.I worked until the daymy brother needed me backhome, and I went to whereI could do some good, and kepthim until he died one night.How much did I choose of life?How many days did I wishfor what I saw others waste?I could say I had no timeto think of such things, but whywould I want to lie aboutanything now, near the end?I want to say what happened,to tell the truth about allI went without, all I neededand never got, though I knowno one listened then, and noone is likely to listen now. [End Page 25]

THE FIELD AT REST

Across a field no one is watching right now,The sun sets through high orange-streaked clouds,Sending citrine light over the meadow canopy,Full summer crowns of maple and white oak,Tulip poplar, shagbark, and layers of scrub pine.Cows keep the grass cropped, but not too short,Far from the pond, and steeper than other grazing.Deer nibble at the edges, and bed down thereSome nights, where I have startled them in groupsAt sunset, sending their hooves skittering away.My father has buried cows in the far corner,One time not deep enough, and coyotes scatteredBones out in the open and far into the woods.At this hour, the cows will have gathered closerTo the barn, and nothing much will be moving,Just the eyes, always scanning from the edges,Loping along just under cover of shadows.My father is home nursing the many illnessesOf his age, maybe on the porch with his dog,Maybe still about feeding chickens and ducks.My mother will be cleaning the dinner dishes,Also stepping out to the porch to divideScraps between the cats and yard dogs.Later I will call them on the phone,Ask about the animals, their medicines,Any trips the day might have brought.But the field, right now, I know it’s empty,I know I could walk through the late light [End Page 26] Across this untraveled back trail,Almost into another time, stepping quickerThan the quick-closing shadows. [End Page 27]

Jesse Graves

Jesse Graves is the author of two collections of poetry, Tennessee Landscape with Blighted Pine and Basin Ghosts. He is co-editor of three volumes of The Southern Poetry Anthology and of the forthcoming Complete Poems of James Agee. His poems have appeared in recent or forthcoming issues of Prairie Schooner, Blackbird, Carolina Quarterly, and The Missouri Review. Graves is an associate professor of English at East Tennessee State University.

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