Growing up in a town with few trees, 
my favorite place was the cemetery, 
because it had them—cottonwoods, 
tall and mature, forming a rare canopy 
covering caliche paths and gray headstones 
all enclosed by an equally gray, 
knee-high, cinderblock barrier. 
 
Only a short fence was needed since 
vandalism had yet to arrive in the region. 
Too much work to be done where there was more 
oil than water and what precious water there was 
was lavished on the small cottonwood forest living 
to cover the dead—mute voices that no longer 
told me what to do with the rest of my life 
or scolded me into a guilty corner. 
 
I spent a summer there, protected from the heat 
in the shade of trees, among quiet people 
I no longer feared. I think I was ten years old.
                        

I never realized how noisy my husband can be 
as I listen, from another part of the house, 
to him devouring an early bowl of raisin bran. 
 
The gurgling and dripping of slurping milk joins  
a steady clink clink of cold metal on cold ceramic 
creating a musical rhythm like an old folk dance, 
tempo increasing with dwindling high-fiber flakes, 
reaching a crescendo of one loud clank! 
—spoon dropped into empty bowl, 
the lone sound of his popping jaw 
now winding down the grind 
of morning song.