You said that you feel gun-shy to pressure,
but I have seen you barrel between two worlds—
one refining your finger tips, the other, grinding
your tree bark hands.
Where did you come from? I ask,
as you let me pull the horn of the diesel truck.
How did you end up the way you are? my knees
rattle as we drive past the dry crops.
******
Dinner
with your family moved in rotations
of knife clinks against the plate.
Your
sisters cut, and tore, and pulled into slabs of sinewy
beef while
the head of the table
tucked a napkin in the neck of his Sunday shirt.
His wife
steeped creamed corn on her plate, while I followed
the Cotton
Woods dancing outside the window.
I should
have known
the
potatoes came from the farm,
dipping my
rueful finger in Kool-aid.
