My grandfather Arnie Hanson stands in his farm outside of Crookston, Minnesota, ~ 1944

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 smiling

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,

powerful fists. 

II.

It's a shame he's not remembered
for his hands,

farmer's hands,

strong as Missouri tailwaters. 

Hands deserving of monument

like those who first 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

like youthful trophies of life. 

So strong, 

the cancer wasn't even what killed him. 

III.

As he lifts

me through his turned fields 

of sugar beets,

I can feel the life

entombed in those knots

diffuse into the autumn light.

We walk into the field once more

fifty October's later

singing boldly,

“Adam Jon. Adam Jon

Went to bed with stockings on.”