Why I Know About Soybeans

for my father, Allan Dovre, 1944–2026

It is said that beans fix 
nitrogen, a magic 
by which they turn air 
to food. Magic is, 
of course, complex. 
Incantation and elixir 
or, in this case, construction. 

Beans build tiny homes 
on their roots, stock 
their kitchens with 
carbohydrates for bacteria 
which in turn transform 
atmosphere to fertilizer. 

My father likes the science 
of farming: soil temperature 
and genetics, yield 
expectations. 

I like the occult of inoculation: 
fairy dust, invisibalia sprinkled. 
The transformation, the sprout.

Dew soaks the thighs 
of my jeans, the knees 
of his as we walk 
up and down the rows 
pulling weeds. 

I learn from him 
how to bear the labor, 
John Deere hat on his head, 
Dekalb on mine. 

He sings as we walk the beans
of muscle, of blood, 
of 16 tons. I shake 
my fists of iron 
and steel at the cockleburs, 
Canadian thistles, pigweed.

Bean leaves are soft, 
like peaches, 
fuzz of their fine hairs, 
silver underside flash 
in wind and sun. 

Sun plants small seeds 
in dad’s skin. Later, 
a doctor will uproot 
the half-grown cells 
from my father’s nose, 
his ear. 

Dad will teach me 
how to bear this too, 
joke of being carved 
like a pumpkin, a turkey. 

But that is later. 

For now, the lumpy 
furrows of the field, 
the stiff leather gloves, 
the fine dirt sifting 
through my socks. 

The feel of each weed 
as it clings 
or gives way 
to my pull.