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Thursday, April 14, 2016
What I mean When I say Farmhouse
Geffrey Davis
Time’s going has ebbed the
moorings
to the memories that make this
city-kid
Part farm-boy. Until a smell close enough to
the sweet-musk of horse tunes my
ears back
To tree frogs blossoming after a
country rain.
I’m back among snakes like slugs
wedged
In ankle-high grass, back inside
that small
eternity spent searching for soft
ground, straining
Not to spill the water-logged heft
of a drowned
barn cat carried in the shallow
scoop of a shovel.
And my brother, large on the
stairs, crying.
each shift in the winds of remembering
renders me
immediate again, like ancient
valleys reignited
by more lightning. If only I could settle on
by more lightning. If only I could settle on
the porch of waiting and listening,
near the big maple bent by children and heat,
near the big maple bent by children and heat,
just before the sweeping threat of summer
thunderstorms. We have our places for
thunderstorms. We have our places for
loneliness—that loaded
asking of the body.
my mother stands beside the kitchen window, her hands
my mother stands beside the kitchen window, her hands
no longer in constant
motion. And my father
walks along the tired fence, watching horses
walks along the tired fence, watching horses
and clouds roll down against the dying
light—
I know he wants to become one or the other.
I want to jar the tenderness of seasons,
to crawl deep into the moment. I’ve come
to crawl deep into the moment. I’ve come
to write less fear into the boy running
through the half-dark. I’ve come for the boy.
through the half-dark. I’ve come for the boy.
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