My dad’s summer job on the farm meant pulling a wagon
of tools, buckets of cool water or twine; winters
he hauled firewood to the house from the tree line.
He worked alongside men.
He imagined there was nothing more tender and suddenly
lethal than his turn at the axe or the combine.
He imagined there would be nothing to redeem him.
My mother’s in the hospital again. She’s alone and dying
at the slow end of crueler tools than Dad’s: her mind and body
grow so different.
Just now she’s sleeping, mouth patient and open for life
to find the way in. Tonight she’ll wake, cough, call me
her good daughter.
She can’t imagine this, too, has changed.
©2008 Dr. Lacy M. Johnson All Rights Reserved.