Going for a run

I jump off the side of the road when the cars come;

I am alone with this building now,

like I wanted.

The blur of speed stirs a loose shingle

and the ghost churns the leaves in a circle.

From the corner of my eye

there is a body darting from the slump of window.

I am certain of five fingers,

alabaster clinging loosely to the toothy edge

and then the creak of floorboards

where presently there are none.

Another car and whirl of wind;

field mice stir from oxidized walls

squeaking and flitting at my ankles—

from inside

someone, something

sighs and shifts its weight.

I am close enough to hold that ashen hand in mine,

familiar enough to ask

which one are you

save the impenetrable boundary between us.

when cell phones have parted us

and factories and robots

and cars—

all those nice cars

and video games and grocery stores

and televisions

when it is hard to look you in the eye

and my fingers jerk

and my mind twitches

and my stomach searches

and computers—

all those expensive computers…

and i can’t sleep

and sometimes i sleep too much

and oh my God i’m twitching

it will be nice to look at this picture

and think about the barns.

the quiet barns

and the simple trees.

the calm farmer

the calloused hands.

the shoes, the clothes, the hair, the faces–

thinned out, not new.

the cock-crow light on the backs of chickens

the nimbus around the good milking cows.

the looks on their faces

as they pause for a long while

to survey all the greatness they’ve built…

There is a sameness between

little girls and the arch of a horse’s back.

The effortless current of mane

where still the comb gets caught;

grace in the solid line that follows the rise and dip of mood.

stormy eyes

that crave grassland

on which to fly…

The day has come

when it is down to just one.

The stroller is light and I push the simple boy of my likeness

through the golden grasses

of a season unsurpassed.

His head turns from side to side

consuming the prairie dogs and the far off coyote.

We break to hear the notes of the creek,

hold our breath for sounds that cannot be imitated

even through the most sincere efforts of technology.

And this, the simple boy seems to know.

Funny how the day has come

when it is down to one

and the lighter stroller is not easier to push.

Soon

I will run alone.

And there will be no uncomplicated fervor for the seasons–

No little partner endorsing the intonations of creeks

and wind

and newness of life in the prairie.

And I will be forced

through memories of their transience

to see it  through my own eyes

again.

While you were hating yourself,

my daughter had a cut-out dress that she decided to make into her Christmas outfit.

It had a gap in the top, so she fashioned to sew it with the only sewing string we have: sanguine and brilliant against the white sheet she formed over her body with a rudimentary belt.

She was careful with the needle as she wove it in and out and between the fabric–

so close to the bone-white virtuosity of her skin.

This is the first dress I have ever made

She was proud and swaying with the movement of the cloth,

fingering her long-standing loose tooth and looking down at her handi-work.

Her brothers stood around her in awe of what two hands can do; their wheels were turning.

And the little blue handles of their kid-safe scissors emerged so that

twenty minutes from that moment, they too could share their own creations:

a melee of scraps and un-useables into something that defined them,

while you were hating yourself.

And I am just so sorry,

that you have never known this kind of love.

Remember how big it seemed;

our living room ceiling like Wyoming sky.

We pulled out our sleeping bags,

threw down the blankets your mother sent

and flipped the switch for the gas fireplace

on and off

on and off

like we had just discovered electric windows

after rolling them up and down for years…

It has been a year since it last happened…

Early this morning a mother owl called from the rotting grandfather tree outside my open, waiting window.

And echoing her low, soft whoos,

a baby owl followed the sound–

imitating syllable for syllable, beat for beat–

sometimes overlapping

and beautifully, awkwardly amateur.

And concurrent with my outside companions,

from my daughter’s room came a delightful sound I have not yet heard while she slumbers:

a joyous cackle-laugh

from a beautiful dream no doubt,

void of all the things she doesn’t know.

And though tired, I was awake enough to wonder if I myself were dreaming–

feeling the tiny baby move and squirm against my ribs;

the whoos from the shuttering  leaves, the cackle from the cosseted bed,

and the grandfather tree not yet brought to its knees by the city.

So perfect were the events of this September morning of my 33rd year,

that whenever death decides to take me,

I would ask it to bury me in this moment.

Sometimes a mom needs to bail

even on family plans,  I think.

And run.

And she will miss her kids when she is gone–

miss seeing their wind-chapped faces

giggle their way up a mountainside with their dad.

She will think about how quiet it is

and choke on the thought of it being that way all the time…

But when she returns–

maybe ten or eleven miles later,

she will love pulling the needles of a cactus from her daughter’s shin,

revel in changing her son’s diaper for the third time that day,

leave the muddy footprints on the floor

and ignore the pant cuffs dragging their adventure across the white carpet.

Her diet will return to foods that have been grown and cultivated,

and her sleep will feel

like she’s no longer waiting for something.