1 Poem
Jayne Marek
Direct Feed
Enter the dust of memory that lies
against splintered walls and fences
at the Stephenson County Fair, rural Illinois,
1961. Because it wasn’t our first
time there, we knew where to go for corn,
popping fat buttered kernels
in our mouths, and beehives of cotton candy
that stuck to our cheeks all day, dirtying.
Always a manure smell, babbles of sheep
and hens, Holsteins in pens, mourning their fields.
Rides and games cost a quarter apiece,
so mostly we walked: exhibit halls,
canvas pavilions that smelled like the Army
in August heat. Enter one building
featuring a new thing: a camera set overhead
at the entrance, sending live action to a television screen
as we walked in. Look! Mom gestured,
and out of habit I flinched
so hard it hurt, as if I’d been struck
after all. What’s wrong with you?
Mom demanded, and said
it embarrassed her that everyone could see
my instant recoil. Not her raised arm
that I’d learned to duck, but the television eye
that played out our secret’s beast truth.
"Direct Feed” was a finalist for the 2018 Up North Poetry Prize.