Mud

Bryan Head

   Iowa, 1889


another spring the showers
whelm the soft ground and
drum to swill and slush
what was once the road out
of here into town and now
bubbles so sudden we’re stuck
in mud up to our shins mud
locking the cart’s wheels
compounding pounds clutched
around our ankles if we can’t
cut it loose the fruit starts to rot
if not then kids begin to thin
have you ever pulled so hard
your shoulders sprout
feathers have you pushed hard
enough the sun starts to set
have you pulled and pushed
and pushed and pulled until
the wood’s wrung rings
all into your skin you push
on anyway until the stuck wheel
comes free you push
until one second your body loses
you and keeps on going
in that second you want to go
until every wheel falls off until—