Once mown
a tedder spreads the murdered crop to dry,
draws a swath, a windrow waiting.
Three days of drought and the hay is fit to bind.

Catch and stack. Catch and stack.
Breathing diesel, dung, and latent threat,
a shirtless boy, fourteen, the mud of field dust and sweat,
scratched by each bail’s blades…

until you’ve built a plinth above the wagon’s rim
to stand atop — prince of something.
Stand there rut-bouncing ‘till with one lethal bump,
your hay mountain shakes you off.

You hit the ground and roll to meet the wagon’s wheel.
Your gut can’t bear the weight.
The wheels press your face into the loam
a fossil of your surprise.

And your mother at her sink
Wonders why you’re late
making hay.

Mr. Kraft, a librarian by trade, has published satire, poetry, and short stories in such places as Phoebe, Against the Grain, Streetlight, Thieving Magpie, Gargoyle, and the South Street Star.