The magazine on my lap talks
about milk. Tells me that in America,
every farmer lost money on
every cow, every day of every month
of the year. Imagine that? To wake
up and know you're digging yourself
deeper into a hole you can't see
out of, even as your hands are wet
with what feeds you. That's how this
thing is, holding on & losing a little each
moment. I'm whispering an invented
history to myself tonight-because
letting go is the art of living fully
in the world your body creates
when you sleep. Say a prayer for
the insomniacs. They hunger &
demand the impossible. Pray for
the farmers, hands deep in loam-
body's weight believing what
the mind knows is ruin, they too
want the impossible, so accustomed
to the earth responding when they call.



About this poem
"This poem began with an article I read about farming in America. The outcomes, the chance for success, to even gain a living from this work they've invested their lives in, is bleak. Still, some persist-sometimes love is like that."
-Reginald Dwayne Betts

About Reginald Dwayne Betts
Reginald Dwayne Betts is the author of "Bastards of the Reagan Era" (Four Way Books, 2015). He lives in New Haven, Conn.

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(c) 2016 Reginald Dwayne Betts. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate