I grew up riding trains from the suburbs to the city,
then around the city, hovering on the EL
between the pavement and tops of skyscrapers.
I took them across the country. Coast to Coast.
The vibrations of wheels against the floorboards,
the landscapes even, after a while, blend together.
When you’ve journeyed enough, the subtle differences between
America’s fields are muffled whistles in the backdrop
of restless, upright sleep.
If you wanna do this over the phone
I have free long distance.
My comfort on trains is found
on the side nearest to the door.
I exit quicker this way. I’ve decided,
on this trip, that I’ll conduct family research,
that I’ll call a man I’ve never met.
I wish I could leave my questions wrapped at his doorstep,
a one-way ticket to my town, watch from a distance
to see if he steps off the train when it arrives.
But a ringing phone is an empty platform, no crowd to hide you,
no door for escape.
My brother didn’t know how much I should tell you,
but you seem nice, and no one ever asks about dad.
A full car is more intimate than one scarce
with passengers. Noise creates privacy, guards
your whispered questions, your reactions to the answers,
makes you listen more intently to the voice on the other side,
the deep drawl’s propulsion towing every memory it owns
into your ear.
Most of the time he was alright, but when he—
he’d change, ya know. Real quick. When it’d get past
around seven or eight at night and he wasn’t home yet,
we’d turn out the lights in our rooms so when he got home
we could pretend to be asleep.
These fields, from my window, stand still.
Their green rows, untilled, salute me
as I pass. The soybean leaves, wheat
and corn stay safely segregated, no traces
of either intruding the other’s space, these
boundaries set by a farmer, understood
by his crops.
A few times, just like most dads do
their kids, I guess. But one time mom
ended up across the room.
After that, instead of coming home
he’d ride around with my uncle, and they’d drink
it off whatever it was that made em mad.
That’s what he was doin the night he died.
In this vast expanse of land, farmhouses
stand alone, watchmen of their acreage.
Tractors roam around them, harvesting
the soy and wheat and corn, those dividing
lines uncrossed.
See they got into a fit with family
over property. And dad and Uncle E
pretty much left my aunt’s stumblin drunk,
I guess. It was floodin that night, and I was out
surveyin the flood damage to the house,
cause it was floodin bad, and he came home
with Uncle E behind him, got out his car and into uncle’s.
That was the last time I saw my dad.
Where I see sun-rays gliding across
silent fields, where I see green and not the soil
beneath it, does a farmer see toil? Does he stare
into the glass of passing trains and romanticize
the journey, imagine the steam rising
from steel-black coffee? Still, we both hear,
from different perches, the travelers and their baggage
grinding the train into the tracks,
that painful moan.
Jacob Nantz
For "Salem"
What is the significance of this work to you?
I stumbled over some hidden family history, the details of which helped me answer some difficult questions about myself. A trip to my great grandfather's hometown was the culminating event in a series of self-reflective exercises, and ultimately helped me gain empathy and compassion for a man who, based on my research, had a tendency to squander opportunity by repeating the same mistakes. In order to understand him, I wanted to understand the place from which he came, and this piece reflects my findings.
What is the significance of the form you chose for this work?
As I began to write more about my family history, I viewed each piece as an artifact of my research. I wanted this 'still' to resonate the way a photograph might if you were to analyze it: capturing the images of a town and unpacking what they might reveal about its people.
What was your process for creating this work?
Like any small town that serves as a county seat, Salem, Indiana revolves around its town square. I recognized this instantly, and sat on a bench near the courthouse taking notes of the different stores and shops. I also spoke with a few people: some distant family I had never met and members of the town's historical society. I wrote this as if to direct the reader through my observations.
For "Weight We Carry"
What is the significance of this work to you?
I learned my great grandfather had several children with his second wife, half brothers and sisters my family never knew about. These new great-uncles and aunts were integral in my discovery process, and I was floored by their generosity and kindness when I reached out with questions about their father. This piece is documentation of my first ever conversation with a great uncle, who wanted to know just as much about me as I wanted to know about him.
What is the significance of the form you chose for this work?
I had this conversation on a train, and wanted the piece to embody literal and figurative movement. I also replaced my questions with personal reflection, allowing my great uncle to speak on his family's behalf. My hope was for the poem read like dialogue, though it's more me listening and sorting through the information's meaning.
What was your process for creating this work?
I wrote the first draft almost immediately after hanging up the phone, using the notes I took on the call as a jumping point. Writing his answers allowed me to slowly discover why the call felt so important to me, and my surroundings seemed to contribute to what I wanted to say (the farmland outside, the near-empty car). Eventually, I was able to clearly articulate my side of the conversation and marry it with my great uncle's answers, which are almost direct quotes.
For "Aurora"
What is the significance of this work to you?
I have such an affinity for my hometown, which is also my parents' hometown, as both sets of my grandparents landed in Aurora after growing up in Chicago. There's a grit to Aurora, and like most midwestern places, a feeling of community. I wanted to give the reader a snapshot of this place I love. It is as much an ode as it is a 'still.'
What is the significance of the form you chose for this work?
Similar to "Salem," this piece was to represent a captured image of a place. It is a detailed answer to the question "where am I from?"
What was your process for creating this work?
Leaving a place will highlight the things you miss about it. I sat in my apartment on the east coast and outlined as many characteristics of my hometown as I could. The piece quickly fell into place on its own.
Jacob Nantz is a poet and essayist based in Northern Virginia. Originally from the Chicago area, he received his MA in Poetry from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. His work has appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Sinking City, Five South, Emerge Literary Journal, The Evansville Review, and elsewhere.