big orange, Illinois,
rotund autumnal
heartland center,
pumpkin territory.
August’s thrum begins to drum
against tough hides
of pumpkin acres,
the ripening signal.
tiniest ones line window sills
along back porch halls,
while grandest usher
Cinderella on route to the ball.
the beat continues through harvest time,
as burners heat for packing plant’s
canning extravaganza,
on behalf of la calabaza.
raza rise from the south,
close to pumpkin’s native birthplace,
up to its new home north, factory rat race,
with 10 weeks of good wages in the bargain.
heat and jargon turn up pressure gauges,
the beat rages
over 12-hour days, seven a week,
pumpkin gold catches its fall winning streak.
men and women line up
for cleanin’, slicin’, sortin’
up here in Morton, Illinois,
not a mecca of salt,
but perhaps sweat and tears,
where workers keep returning
after 10 and 20 years.
they’ve even built a church around it
in old Soledad,
with money from
la calabaza, el norte and God.
by November, raza again heads south to Mexico,
the Morton factory turns quiet,
while throughout the USA, another riot,
as cans of pumpkin fly off grocery shelves.
creamy, cooked and canned,
the forefront of another Thanksgiving,
lending America a hand,
to make a pie, then get on with real living.
it’s the grand finale course in West Virginia,
Washington, Wyoming, with ample room for
another slice of pumpkin pie, then back to video games,
hour-long naps and sinks full of smeared-up dishes.
how is it that no one asks or wishes
to know where pumpkins start out
or who brought them to the end of the line.
please pass the wine.
after the last empty can’s discarded
and final hunk of pie digested,
the workers will still be fully vested,
with another hefty slice of cash,
for their annual 10-week drill,
when the autumn beat
resumes
in Morton, Ill.
##
~ Cynthia Gallaher
"Beat of the Pumpkin Drum" originally appear in Big Scream magazine and as part of my full collection Epicurean Ecstasy: More Poems About Food, Drink, Herbs & Spices (The Poetry Box, Portland)
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