1850 – Rising.

1.
She took the bull
—the breeder,
our entire future
down
the dark trail.

There was no discussion
about mother,
about the guilty
footprints to the butcher.

Father lay dying over
grandmas white linens
until he wasn’t anymore.

Suddenly
soup.

2.
She wore her dress,
Sunday’s church,
wading in the river—
watching the men on the bank.

Silently fishing.

3.
She gathered eggs
in the morning.
Warm for cooking.
Scrambled, Over medium, Hard, Poached.
Standing at the stove—
radiating heat.

Humming hymns
to herself.

4.
A winter of lead.
Heavy protestant rafters.

Silent
cold.

Reverent,
tombstone-cold.

Mother burned
the barn in the stove.

5.
The fat summer Grace died—
Blackberries and grapes
Beer and moonshine
Chickens and rabbits

Cooking all day.
All day dirty plates,
all day turning spits—
all the angry ovens.

6.
Fireflies brought recurring dreams
of dad walking in
the fields,
clearing the stones.
Incorporating the mash.
Drinking our worries.
Carrying the sire bull.
Straddling the bucking barn.
Lighting oil lamps in the yard—
fireflies.

7.
I saw Uncle Robert from Colorado
rise
with a full team of horses,
rise
like the cedars do—
over the hill
until he too floated
in-between
the hill and the clouds.

Robert from the mountains
stepped down
to straighten an injured fencepost
and then he drove the jingling team
across the river
to the porch.

He settled in.

8.
Sister Edith converted again.
Sunday church with mother~
wading in the river~
dresses like clinging church bells.

Sister Edith rang.
At last, no longer silent.

Five dollars for wedding invitations;
Cordially,
“Robert and Edith”

9.
Mother lived
nine more summers by the river.

Near the end,
she was watched over
by young boys, reverent boys,
sons of Edith, who taught her
every day
to pick a flat rock,
to hold it sideways,
to throw it in that familiar way
over water and water.

10.
Mother died in the shadow
of the new barn,
where she could hear
young boys laughing.

Up the ladder—
Falling—
Up the ladder—
Falling—
into the yellow
hay below.

Up the ladder—
Falling—
Up the ladder—
Falling—

Up the ladder—
Falling—
Up the ladder—
Falling—

11.
It rained the day we tried
to bury mother.

The great pouring of 1850.
It was the kneeling river
drumming,
sobbing,
swelling up
all at once—
rising up, like choir voices
singing loudly, Halleluiah—
taking mother away
in a tiny wooden boat.