Always, I remember we travel by night.
In the dim moonlight,
I catalog the rows (corn, beans,
corn, beans). Mom asleep, Dad drives
in silence (the radio switched off miles ago).
Every few minutes he stifles a yawn, shakes his head
to stay awake, to get us there safely.
I dig in my blanket for my flashlight
to signal to the stars where we are.
But my blanket is warm; it’s tattered,
silky edges confuse my hands, the smooth cruise
of the asphalt lulling my eyelids – the tick
of the turn signal – the last sound I hear
before the kick of the gravel, first kernels
of corn popping on the stove.