The Barn
I have often pretended to return
to this barn in wet weather while the moon’s
ashen face matches my reflection, while
I climb the sky foot by foot and peek between
cracks in the roof, gaps in the cloud cover.
My body is the forgotten home of fire,
the blaze I carry in my breath, secrets
and legends, road trips across the blustering
earth, seasons under my skin. The world
is silent beneath me. No cars, trees, houses,
shopping malls, banks or interstates rise
through the rafters. There is no time or place
beyond this rough-hewn darkness, this
starlight that stipples my skin.
Now I understand my grandfather fifty years
before me, walking down a mile of pecan groves,
his voice rising in a story he would grow to tell, of faces
he had known since infancy seeking him in a dark
house, lost in the light of his eyes. I know well the way
my brothers chased chickens and guinea fowl
into manhood and ate the lean offerings of the land—
pork, beef, turnips and potatoes.
The farm makes solitude a treasure. The ginger
pains of age bestow their blessings on my hardened
hands. Raindrops mix with sweat. I come here
to whisper my name and my story, to endure all
I love, to live as if I’m heard.
Previously published in Blue Unicorn.
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