Gods of the Dirt
                                                  a. k. huseby

We wallowed like fine, shiny hogs
in the San Joaquin mud, brown
and lumpy, glops glistening
to cool our hides.

Uncle Del, with the earring
like my grandmother wore,
had opened the canal duct,
forcing the rusted round crank
to flood the sheep field.

He said, "We will be glorious,
fabulous, to envy. Our skin
will glow! Come children
roll with me. Be gods
of the summer dirt!"

How it caked us, drying
as we rose from it, baked
instantly by the radiant sun,
jealous of our freedom and ability
to be filthy; it matted our hair
and weighed down our eyelids,
leaving only clean, pure eyes
to see the beauty in the dust.

© 2002 by a. k. huseby