These poems….wow. Breathtaking. My favorite line?
“They danced like a swallow of water down your throat.”
Why are you remembering it this way? Why is everything
a delicate brushstroke of nostalgia? Homesickness
for a home. Young girls indian
styled under a drowsy-sycamore
promoting their angularity—
all elbows and knees.
Take me home. The long way. The punctured water-tower
of specifics flowing down your neck. The way her face
broke when the head-on traffic
attacked her reflection
in the glass. The light on the glass.
Tonight let’s play the bedsheet with stress sweat.
Remember the lightening-crack of the shot out bulbs the cats
pawprinted. That was the summer of Dad’s aggression.
The summer we laid deep in ditches and listened
as the semis assaulted the cornstalks. Here is where
we found early evening by the cupful. The night
the branches in the frontyard grew kittens for the rescuing.
Remember the memory when you tight-rope-walked home
along the yellow paint of backroads, kicking up the dust of drought.
Not all memory is epiphany. Not all sunsets crackle like a November fire.
The nieces danced. They danced like a swallow of water down your throat.
Let’s go back to the first. The first pilot light of memory.
On your back, filleted daydreams: buoys pirouetting. The plane
you thought would unzip for the sky Blouse open to the clouds.
Like the two would roll up into a blanket.
The way mother carried herself through the grass. The scrub grass
with its rash decisions. All left or right. Cherry bomb fingers.
Dirt mouth dirty. Handful of bird’s nest.
The man wearing a suit of setting-sun throws you at the sky
as the other children scream