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University of Northern Iowa
RhubarbAuthor(s): MATTHEW BURNSSource: The North American Review, Vol. 295, No. 2 (SPRING 2010), p. 3Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25750602 .
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N A R
THE 2010 JAMES HEARST POETRY PRIZE
C.' - cON~AJL
MATTHEW BURNS
Rhubarb
The poison lives only in the leaves, thick with instant bitterness to warn you, and my Polish grandmother said this was to kill off the lazy ones, the stupid ones, the ones who wanted things handed to them,
who couldn't find it in themselves to dig.
And planting it told everyone you didn't mind dirt under your nails, that you knew life was hard work if you did it right. So she grew more than the whole family could eat.
By May, her narrow terraced backyard in the city's First Ward was a lapping sea
of palm-sized leaves; by June, a solid ruff of green, a pruning knife's hooked blade biting through the stalks with a flick of her wrist and a quick snap.
The one time tried this I sliced deep into my thumb knuckle at first swipe.
We were both red inside, me, the rhubarb.
That's the stuff I didn't really think about at ten, how everything bleeds; how everything must die somehow? the stupid ones poisoned, the hard workers heart-worn and wrecked.
We ate the rhubarb raw, stripped of all its leaves.
Dipped in sugar, it still lingered bitter on our tongues as some inoculation
against the worst of what was yet to come.
FIRST PLACE JAMES HEARST POETRY PRIZE
Spring 2010 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 3
This content downloaded from 195.34.78.137 on Sat, 14 Jun 2014 20:01:52 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
