Prose Poem: Sand

 

I grew up on a sand farm.

We planted in summer and harvested

in winter, when the pine needles

were more stable.

You need pine needles to pacify

the sand demons that otherwise

would rise up and snatch away your

cuticles.

Or so the old folks said.

I worked beside my mother

and father, tending the silicon

grains until they matured.

Then we hauled them to the

curing shed, added sumac berries,

and let the whole mess ferment

until it turned white and dry 

as cattails.

Then we sold it to the Texans,

who came in droves in the dull

of February to dicker with my

father over the price per ton.

What they wanted it for I never found out.

"Best you don't know, son" my dad 

told me, with his rough brown hands

on my shoulders.

The Monsoon of 2020 wiped us out.

The whole family took to the road,

selling matchstick carrots and mending

horse shoes. 

But it was a poor living, so my father

bought sacks of pumpkin pie spice

which we smuggle across the

Canadian border --

in our fanny packs.

When I asked him what 

Canadians do with all that

pumpkin pie spice, he

put his rough brown hands on

my shoulders and said:

"Best you don't know, son."

I hate my father.

*******************************

Email response to this poem from Nathan Draper in Bangkok:

"Like so many things....best we don’t know. Helps stabilize world order!"