American Gothic

You say she’s the farmer’s

daughter. I argue she’s his wife—

regardless of what Wood

unveiled in 1941.

 

You’ll add that we can see it

by her somber, vacant stare.

A spouse would acquiesce—

to the fate the cards have proffered.

A daughter still harbours

hopes of emancipation.

 

I counter I can’t imagine them

playing Fish. Gin Rummy.

Strip Poker’s out of the question

either way. Maybe Milk

& Lemonade. The object of the game

is to acquire the 2 of Hearts.

It’s the only face that matters.

 

She could’ve been his sister.

A tot who’s in the corn a foot above,

screeching in their ears like a

demon/banshee—

while he mended the peeling

storehouse for their grains.

We ponder the red of barns.

Why we’ve never seen one painted

aqua/teal.

 

The pitchfork looks so scant,

suited more for pickles in

a barrel. Its triune prongs

the bars of a prison window.

For the farmer? The Trident of

Prince Namor. A bequeathment

from his sailor-captain-father.

 

I struggle to picture them

smiling at a piglet’s squeal.

Beaming at the triplets of

a mare—it’s three-in-a-million

odds. Grinning at the joke about the

cow that passed its gas

in the Bishop’s face.

 

Or envision the bales of hay,

stacked like Babel’s steps,

so she could scale & snatch

the sun from their sour sky.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

August 25, 2026

American Gothic, Grant Wood (1930)