4 SOUTH 24
In the shadow of the fallen
limb, waist-sized carcass
the grass is swallowing –
on the dark side there,
something beautiful, ex-
citing, you’ve never seen
quite. We part green stems
like curtains and there,
a child again playing games
by herself – preferring
clear the hell away
from her mother’s shrill
pomposity fixed
on what she is not.
And her mother, the
teetotaler that married
the old judge who hid
in the barn with his jug.
Even now, I can hear it
pierce rooms through
the big house, the faux-
operatic screeched keyless
to hello yodels at the door
in those days – so senseless
now, but she’s OK
playing princess
for as long as she can.
Rain: .35"; barn blown down.
