Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
1FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .
We lie back to back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.
Now there is no more catching
I scrub the long floorboards
in the kitchen, repeating
the motions of other women
who have lived in this house.
Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.