The Color of Us
I’m looking at a photograph of a bearded Romaine Tenney on his hay mowerhitched to draft horses in a half-cut field. Tenney, whose Vermont farm was slatedto be swallowed by Interstate 91, immolated himself, rather than be forciblymoved. My son says, I may go off for an adventure, but I will always come backhere! He points to the ground. Tenney went off to war, came back. Didn’t everleave again. He was offered resettlement funds when the interstate was zoned,but what would such funds mean to someone partnered with a specific meadow?Our neighbor’s barn is full of hay despite it having been inordinately wet—sowet mushrooms explode across the forest floor. Tiny fungi are probably sproutingright now in the hay bales, too. Meanwhile, chanterelles sit in wet towels in…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2023