Driving through the Country before You Are Born: Poems

Red Barn

15 Red Barn I In the morning, before the sun collars the trunks of large oaks, something else rises without permission. I squirm from it like it’s some kind of irritation—sand in the bed, a crooked mirror on the wall— and call it the awakening. But it’s just another affirmation of what I don’t have beside me, what I won’t find in the closet, what I can’t see beyond the dust flittering in the sunlight around the Mason jar on the ruddy brown dresser. 16 II If I am awake, I hope that it was just a dream, something I can cling to when the water hits my back. I am heavy. Under the covers there is a way out, a possibility, a rub. She is beautiful and soft. I stroke and beat and press down with my thumb to hold back the eruption, think about beach sand in the joints, the salt in the corners of my mouth. I take my tongue lick the edges, see the weeds in her hair, smell the ocean in her skin, feel the soft folds, the hard lines with each thrust, the moist center . . . release. It is time. 17 III There is nothing I can say about the way things smell on Sunday mornings: chicken smells like chicken, fried gravy smells like fried gravy. Perhaps I could point out what smells like ash and what smells like dirt, but the lid kept tight on the pot becomes what I hear: a comfortable hiss, a crackle, a pop, the absence of water on hot steel, the small silences. 18 IV The sun shows the gaps in the planks, makes walls look like they are closing in. I want to run outside but I find myself looking somewhere past the wheelbarrow, ladder, hoes and shovels; beyond the barrels, ropes, rakes, and chains; behind old doors, plaster casts, sheets of glass and slate. I find the feathers and the dark spots in the dirt, old stories about baby chicks pecked to death by older chickens because of the simple specks of difference. And then it starts.The inevitable whimper that turns to drone, turns to rhythm, turns to sounds I have heard before, sounds that I never want to hear again: dirt slung in the bottom of a jar, a fist rubbed against the reeds, the belt onTrudy’s back.And I know my time is going to come. The wolves are at the door. 19 V I rub the blade against the ridges on my thumb slow enough so that the edge catches each one. I stop at the center, hold there, apply pressure. Point of view is clear in the field, there is nothing between me and the horizon, but a house, a kitchen window. I watch the mother die. I watch the son blame himself. I watch the father look down.There is no other way to remember it. I can reach into my pockets, dig for old roaches; think it is time to start tearing the old man down, but he will still wrap the strap tighter around his forearm, and I will flinch the same way Trudy flinches, finger the small welts, the thin barriers between interior and exterior, and watch the way skin responds to pain with fluid, the way blood strains just under the surface to let me know it is there. His eyes are closed. I keep the house always to my back, the mouth of the row tight and even, and let the blade slowly close the throat. 20 VI In the back, there is a lump. The collapse is inevitable. A pile will break down, decompose like a kid’s dream hid in the leaves— give it time. When wheat dies, it falls forward. I am the earth. I cannot tell the difference between hard and soft, only constants. I dig the hole, listen to metal slice the dirt. It is not enough. The ground is stubborn, returns its shape, won’t bend under pressure, won’t give to weight, and the horizon is slowly moving in. Still I dig, try not to talk about concussions, unnecessary bruising, slicing the knuckle off to gain a few extra inches, or the miles of rows left unfinished. [3.145.119.199] Project MUSE (2024-04-25...