The Gleaners, by Jean-François Millet, 1857
By Declan Geraghty
The pollen
gets into everything,
inside my nose
down the back of my throat
it gets like that
when you till the fields some days
we take the minimum wage
bury it
water it
let it rise
I tell her to take the other field
to work on health
housing
sure you can’t do anything without a roof over your head
she nods
laughs
I tell her to leave the roads until last
I don’t rush
the grass always looks greener
on the other side
when they rush
but the weeds sprout too quick
they tend to wrap around our feet
if you don’t do it right,
the field of education across the way
is a grand expanse
we take each square foot
planting nutrients
tilling some more
we turn the soil
my eyes hurt
its the pollen
it gets into everything,
she smiles at me
from housing
as she moves onto health
making sure
the land is ruddy
and the birds land
peck
and come back again
when there’s no other option,
along with the foxes,
and the cattle who give us
their milk and cheese
in return
for our sacrifice,
even when it gets tough
even when the pollen gets into everything,
I look out at the wages
watch them rise
we put out scarecrows
so the vulture funds don’t land,
then till the fields some more.
