Sadie Lou

And me there, so soiled.

I’d waited long months
for the heavier crops of autumn,
pumpkins the color of old
paper, the yellowed squash
like dying leaves, and most
importantly, the blood
of the maple trees, poured
and flowing on everything
from flash-fried pancakes
to crisp potatoes to sausage,
packed in ways I’d never
wanted to understand.

Looking on the table
that joyful first year,
I knew what it meant,
the dirty hands, aching
shoulders, crumpled
and grimy linen apron:
hunger.