The Last Summer

by Soon Jones

I blanket the grass with dried grains
so the black bantams and their chicks
can rake their claws through something.
The dogs gently nip the cows’ noses,
keeping them at bay while I fill the troughs
with earthy-sweet molasses feed.
Hands riddled with plant fibers,
I pick the last of the summer
squash, tomatoes, bell peppers.
When fall arrives for my birthday
my stepmother, strung out on opioids,
will grab a gun and warn my father
we better disappear by morning
or else. We’ll take what we can
and leave the rest behind.
A few years after, all of this land
will be sold to the mill.
Turned to profit,
the dogs sold, the cows slaughtered,
the hens left to fend for themselves.
Weeds and brush will overtake everything
until the mill saws it down,
plants orderly rows of pine for paper,
peanuts for cash.
But for now, I sit on the back porch steps
and husk silver queens, dig out green worms
and toss them to the chickens.

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Soon Jones is a Pushcart Prize-nominated Korean lesbian poet and author originating from the rural countryside of the American South. Their work explores the unending cycles of grief, trauma, and finding inner strength in your darkest moments. Soon is a 2017 Lambda Literary Fellow and is currently pursuing an MFA in Poetry at Oklahoma State University.

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