In the Absence of Clocks

To Ukraine

17 To Ukraine On the Missouri River A thin boy paces the fence-line surrounding my parents’ house. Inside, my father slowly sickens, forgets his stories. When the boy leaves, I follow. Farmers turn the coffee-dark soil with huge machines, workers paint the church white to match the moon. Soon, the boy stops and turns, but heat has taken the words he needs. We walk together. He offers strange crosses, vodka bottles, stalks of wild garlic. I balk, unsure if I am the same as these things. It is time for us to go somewhere, he finally says. Behind him, naked girls play at baptism in the river, the old paddle-wheeler is moored, ready. And somehow, impossibly, a Cossack skiff. ...