The summer before you left
the store of wingbeats at dusk
finally broke off.
I reached for the shadow between the fence and the house
not caring if I looked plastic in the long stretch of green.
Once, measuring what was left of the earth’s
vertical fields, you almost called me lifelike.
It was a poor apology for a doll’s world at the end of the century.
But you made me imagine a crest of red rock both ways.
A sky too deep to see.
Days begin with fire. Logs husked of bark and kitchen tables piled with
Lemons make the floor shine. The moon draws up the bottom of a cup.
I drop the bucket when the oven is warm. Soak the branches the older girls
cut from the oak.
They play while I supervise the younger ones at the stove. A quilt drapes
over a set of chairs. Separate rooms for love and snow falling easily.