What I wouldn’t give to climb 
the side of my uncle’s truck again 
on a hot summer wheat-harvest day
to lean over the side board 
and let the combine hopper
pour its payload through my spread fingers.

To take a kernel into my mouth and bite 
into it like Dad to test for moisture
to know we had the perfect day
but still worry about finishing 
before the evening storms 
that always hurry after heat like this.

To cart jugs of iced tea and Dixie cups
from house to field for the men 
and to be a little part 
of that great harvest scene again.

Or to watch Grandpa on a Saturday afternoon
small ax in hand, select the chickens for Sunday dinner,
to help Grandma pluck on the porch.

It’s not just being ten and innocent again.
It’s to know again where things come from, 
that someone’s grandma fed the chickens I eat,
that a real human being touched the wheat 
in my bread, to know the name of the steer 
whose meat is in my freezer.

To be able to think once more that vegetarians 
are a little strange.

To have never heard the word agribusiness.