Nine Months in Midwest Wheat Country—

 
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BY MERVYN R. SEIVWRIGHT

amber grains wave in Des Moines, silence

the s—the monks have left. Just above

poor-trash-class life, south-side, struggling.

America. Our neighbor accepted us,

 

we play his Mattel’s Intellivision

video game. Watching him run outside

to grab softball size hail, storming

winds in circles, innings of pitches

from the sky. We listen to Music

Television’s birth: “Video Killed

the Radio Star,” “In the Air Tonight,”

“Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,”

 

“Whip it.” We went scrapping

for spare change, cutting grass,

collecting glass bottles. Joy riding,

jumping bikes in hilly dunes,

four-wheelers across sandy dunes,

jeeps in curvy dunes—hanging on

to jeep rails as the jeep rolls over—night joy

finds us tipping tired cows over—

hiding in shadows from angry farmers. 

 

My voice at school places me

in speech classes so my American

teacher can understand my English

accent. Not sure if I got picked on

because of being black, sounding different,

or not being American when a car passed

our car with a sign, Niggers kiss ass,

squeezing ass cheeks against passenger

window. Amber grains wave us away.


Mervyn R. Seivwright has appeared in AGNI Literary Magazine, The Trinity Review (Canada), African American Review, Griffel Literature Review (Norway), Cape Cod Poetry Review, Burningword Literary Journal, INNSÆI Journal (India), Mount Island’s Lucy Terry Prince poetry contest 2nd Runner-Up, and Santa Fe Literary Review 2021 Pushcart Nominee. https://www.clippings.me/mervynseivwright

Process Note: My Process for the poem, “Nine Months in Midwest Wheat Country” is connected to a memoir collection of poetry targeting my transition in America from England at age ten to eighteen. In order to fill the bones of memories from my nine months experience in Iowa, I searched the historical events during that time to thicken the soup of the events I remembered. I choose to deliver tension towards the end of the narrative at the turning point, the last stanza, speaking what may have created the short stay, the vulnerability felt being a black immigrant at this location.