.................................
Another Time, Another Fire
.................................

1997

Careful to keep the fire small and far
from the barn barely warm
he and his friends are laughing and drunk
and boring me.
He yells at our youngest for touching tomatoes
and beans and radishes in his garden.
I let her pick
yellow squash with her little friends
and eat it raw without washing it
when he is away. I know the older kids
were back here smoking pot last summer.
The barn is sagging
like a heavy old woman.

1947

Voices are fading and I am tripping over
a bale a hose a hoe a boston whaler.
A flame a back porch light
and I can almost see the tools I am touching
along the walls,
the blackened marble.
Feel the calluses along his long fingers
his thick palms. The crack of dawn in
his eyes. Hear the cock the lamp the doors
the udders sigh. I would know the name of
every tool and bring him coffee
after the milking.
Draw him a hot bath the sheets
at first glimpse of a star or a moon
or no heaven at all.
Smooth his hands against my face
my breasts my back. Scream
into his neck his chest his thigh.

.................................
Liz Haight
.................................

 
Copyright © Liz Haight
September 1997

...a poem in this room by Judy Hartwell...
where we keep the souls
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