Adam Jon

I.
Pregnant October
orange and spice
swing behind my grandfather
in the black and white photo
near his twenty-fifth year.

Muddied beside the remnants of
his fields he smiles
past the camera
towards his wife.

A portrait of strength and adoration.
Handsome. Far from humble.

Myself, fifty years before.

Not invincible, but close—
his fists raised like Joe Louis
in the smoke falling from the lit cigarette
around those curled fingers,
buoyant fists.

II.
It’s a shame he’s not remembered
for his hands,
a farmer’s,
strong as Missouri tailwater.

Hands deserving of monument
like those who broke this land.
Deserving of gloves, at least.

A face is but remembered for its mole
and past those hands grew arms once.
Boxer’s arms, trained on ax and plow.

Muscle later distilled
to grape-sized tumors.
For as long as I could walk
he carried them—
youthful trophies of life.
So strong
the cancer wasn’t even what killed him.

III.
As he lifts
me through his turned
sugar beet fields,
I can feel the life
entombed in those knots
diffuse into the autumn light.

We walk into the field once more
fifty Octobers later,
singing boldly,

“Adam Jon. Adam Jon
went to bed with stockings on.”