We often get asked some variation of the question: what surprised us most about moving to the farm? We often answer some variation of the reply: how long have you got? A frequent item on that long list is: ticks. Ticks. Ticks. Ticks. Their population is exploding across the Midwest, which is quite a problem given the diseases they carry. They’re worst in late spring. The tickseed flower, a native perennial to the Eastern United States, has nothing to do with them other than appearance, and yet its name coupled with the ever-present tick (both in mind and on body) were what inspired this poem.
Tickseed
Here, the tickseed so named for its showy center kernel. There, the tick ascending your neck. You are not aware. This is the way of things—coreopsis’ bedbug heart, clinging ineradicably to the blankets, to the jeans and the fine arm hairs. See the red ring at its center, the petals mawing July yellow— pack of puppies all over the damn place— the way it screams itself, full-bodied, the way of ticks, posing at the blades of grass, the tops of garden stakes, the open edges of doors always ready to grab on and start climbing.