bordering Oklahoma. Paris, Savoy not far away.
Rim of the dustbowl. Who gave dirt such fancy names?
Black wall billowing from the sky.
Night at noon.
Dust mask fashioned from a flour sack.
In the family photo from 1938, my father
is the fifteen-year-old boy leaning, ankles crossed,
against a Ford coupe. Behind him, low cloud of cotton.
In the distance, a line of willow oaks marks the Red River.
His father’s too-big overalls.
Frayed straw hat.
Maybe-I’ll-be-a-movie-star smile.
His sunup to sundown list of rules—
tease fiber gently from between knife-sharp edges of bolls,
don’t bleed, don’t tattle
when your older brother claims your sack at the scale,
watch for snakes between the rows.
Bells. Named for its clangorous Sunday mornings.
A place where Saturday’s fishing pole
is the blessed respite from work and church.
Imagine my father’s torn hands after a day in the field.
Imagine him behind the wheel of that car.
Imagine his escape.
