Thursday, October 7, 2010

Our Lady of the Rosary

when I am not able to say anything at all,

I bury my face in these feathers and think

about how we used to pick ground pine.

our fingers were so red in the cold, sweaters

down past our knobby knees. there was a wagon,

a cooler full of apples and ice water.

grandpa owned 100 acres. I had the same gap

in my teeth as I have now. I used to be scared

of the creek and the trees that fell across it.

sometimes we found arrowheads in the mud.

I’d clean them off with the hem of my sleeves

and slip them into my pockets.

they would tumble out in the washing machine,

and clatter around in the metal tub.

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