There is a narrative for new farmers:
"I am making a lot of mistakes
but look, I am really doing something!"

Look at my hands - brownish and not so soft
and my pants covered in dirt and a drop of blood
(that's right, I can kill an animal).

Of course I could gain the signifiers
without throwing myself into difficult and unprofitable work
for which I have little training,

but I need something that has weight;
something hard and cool that I can carry
in place of the shame.

Inarticulable shame drove me
to simulate farms in Africa
and determine the likelihood that families would starve

(failure to meet calorie and protein needs).
I was the white man synthesizing data,
fingers spidery and impotent.

The farm has its own ugliness:
I keep the chickens fenced (for their own good),
I tear out weeds with prejudice,

but when the chicks overheat
now I am directly to blame.
The shame comes to rest in each panting bird
as I drip water into their beaks.

Some die, most survive, and I am not exhonerated
but at least I have something to do with my hands.