Monoculture
by Travis Sharp
image of farmhouse
small child
in overalls
dirty
bolls of cotton— a sort of fruit, woven and worn on the skin, and a kind of money—
to sculpt a little plant life
to be rooted
to move sitting still
detectable only in—
sufficient in self
potted humans
delicately spoken to
generously watered
by the window surrounded by
light
real and artificial
to sculpt a little
life of light
the trailers all on crutches
post-storm
the people shore themselves up
clay wet
slipping
—of a child, of a craven, of a desire,
of a touch—
heaping, boisterous, it was “home,” it was
“distant,” it was “home,”
it was “fixed,” it was “a world”
and united in their flatness
it was “machine” it was “animal” it was “a boy” it was
“growing” it was “so big” it was “a man” it was
“uncomplicated” it was “masculine” it was “gaining weight” it
was “a problem” it was “touchable”
child’s cotton-polyester blend catching the bolls
beginning to grow in volume
becomes the field
low diversity in space
high yield efficiency
and high returns on investment
covering a full 2.5% of the tillable earth
a fruit
to be eaten
by the eyes
and now in such great rows
such great quantity
no longer can be beheld
or only in one’s head
or in the sublimity of a spreadsheet
cotton futures
rolling across
ticker tape
country road
3/4 lb of cotton in each lb of the U.S. dollar
—cotton, the world reserve currency, preserved so
carefully, so hoardfully, so—
—at the store,
finding the wallet,
opening like a codex, your
family rubbing up against your
president,
at the store,
isn’t this the perfect shirt,
look at this scarf,
look at this blouse, look at this
skirt, isn’t this the perfect,
look at those pants, look at
this
at the store, taking your
labor out of your wallet,
pride in the crispness of
the bills, exchanging
cotton for cotton—
the visage of slaveowners providing value
and desire
both alike and unlike gold
coins, equal parts
heavy
value
to be worth one’s weight in cotton bills
thin sales thin fields
thin workers
the health of the crop,
the health of the soul
and the life of the new money safely
distant
made of numbers, no longer
matter
yet into the soft earth
the crutches sink
potted humans rooted to the
now-untillable earth into which their
ships sink
these little metal ships the child
imagines
have sails could
take off
emerge into a new world
to be planted not
to the property
but to the sea
you root there
you’re rooted everywhere
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