Issue 7 Feature Poet:
Review: J.C. Todd's What Space
I remember your kitchen, a table full of men
just in from the hayfield.
It smelled lived in,
like mashed potatoes, pie crust, and sweat.
I remember you in a light
color, refilling dishes before anyone could finish
a first helping. You held them all
with fingers and palms calloused from heat.
When you tell me you hauled cattle
in a big rig, I believe you.
I see you in a cotton T-shirt,
the fabric soft from work,
your tan arms a statement against its confinement.
You jump so quickly into the cab
and your foot anticipates the pedal.
When you get to auction,
you have your own stick to drive the steers into their stalls,
just like the men.