Where Things Came From
 

Summer. It seemed always
summer—hot wind driving
east from the prairies, heavy
 
with rain that refused to fall
to earth until it struck out
like a king snake poked one time
 
too many with a sharp stick,
the warning reverberations
ignored. Then slanting sheets
 
dropped and needles of rain
punctured the cinder dust,
stirring up that dark scent
 
of thirsty earth and water.
Mother lugged a washtub
to the corner of the house
 
beneath the gushing eaves,
to gather sweet rainwater
for the garden and the wash
 
while I splashed knee-deep in ditches.
But mostly it was hot. Sticky
tar boiled up black and tacky
 
between the lumps of limestone
gravel  cast across the road,
tar that reeked of crude and burned
 
the feet of little barefoot girls
who dared to cross the heat
to feed the flock of neighbor’s
 
lambs and rub their oily heads.
Sometimes a rock would shine
like gold and hold the shadow
 
of a bone or fin, some tiny life
etched against the face of stone.
Then August came again.
 
 I meant to ask how fishes
pressed their feathered tails to mud
a hundred million years ago
 
and turned to stone, then tar.
My mother pulled brown paper
sacks over my feet and  snapped
 
red rubber bands around my
bony shins to hold the bags
in place.  I tramped once more
 
across the gummy road to find
the meadow empty. Returned
to mother humming at the stove
 
as she had done each night
of my young life—the floor was mopped,
the garden picked, fresh rye
 
bread on the board. This I ate,
refused the liver, and never     
did I ask about the lambs.