Other Women’s Children

                              (for my sisters)

I still don’t know how he knew

I was running. My mouth was open,

or those boys were barking that loud;

not that I hadn’t been chased

by dogs. There’s a moment when

you can’t tell from which angle

it’s coming, and the air is a red drum,

and the trees lean away from you,

and the ground is wet.     Lonnie drove

truck nights, and grew strawberries

in our backyard, which were small,

but sweet. You could taste his hands

in the dirt, which the mouth learns

to read as green and sweet. My mother

made him liver and onions; we ate fish

Fridays and I wasn’t allowed milk. He’s why

I like my eggs runny. I still don’t understand

anything about engines. I can’t remember

why those boys were after me. Maybe

it makes sense why a Rottweiler

would break a fence.      Lonnie stood

with his shotgun out front. Sometimes

he wouldn’t come home, or he’d walk

into the house with his shirt bloody.

When we left, my mother didn’t want

money. Not that we would have gone,

but that other woman didn’t even invite us

to the funeral. Man, I bet Yvette’s children

have children. Lord knows what’s happened

to Chrissy now that she’s too old to dance.