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Cowlake, Arkansas, 1969
For the horses, in the run between the barn and the pasture,
where a catalpa tree bears its crop of worms. What draws you?
Constant tug of the dark water, the still water, its insides
tin and slick with green. Almost as tall as you are and—
your cousin warns—big enough to drown in. Just inside
the barbed wire that snags you when you lean over to stir
the darkness, to stare at the fish, enormous fish in the dark water,
gold and black, rising like apparitions to the surface,
where you scatter oatmeal stolen from your grandma’s cupboards,
an offering, a secret. The fish come to you, bidden, hungry.
They are everywhere. They are always hungry.
Christmas 1966
The small box is filled with little beasts—
a barn that’s a barge, a boat—the ark’s
ridged sides like boards, a plastic plank,
a deck that drops in fitted slots, but lifted
reveals that zoo of twos—heaped beasts
to be released beneath a glittering tree,
its dove-clipped limbs. Dad’s asleep
in his reclining seat, and crumpled waves
of paper recede as Mom circles the room.
The humming wheel throws light across the walls.
Don’t pick him up by the pits,
which seems easiest. You risk
broken bones, bruised skin.
Instead, once he’s eased up, sits,
shoulders hunched, feet slung
over the edge, lean down for the hug,
your arms under his and around,
hands flat against his back, his arms around
you. This is what you do. Then lift him,
his feet between yours, this timid
dance around, this turn. Tell him
to bend his knees as you ease him
down to the chair, its wheels locked,
set him in slow. Kneel in front
as if to receive his blessing.
Lift each foot to its rest. Wrap
a blanket around him—you’re going out.
Stop at the old flat-front desk,
last hiding place for his cigarettes—
why he wanted up, after all. Stop
at the edge of the porch and lock
the wheels. Make sure he’s in the sun.
Stand silent by, he won’t talk much,
though the lonely cat will,
rubbing its back against the wheels.
When my father bound me, I submitted,
closed my eyes to the lifted knife in his fist.
Even now, the cords still hold my wrists,
rough ropes of love. My chest is bare,
my heart lies open. He loves his god more
than me. I open my eyes, watch my father
raise his fist against a bright and bitter
sky, no angel there to stay his hand.