JENN BLAIR

Leftovers

 

Mornings her mother lies
on the bed, cold rag over
her eyes, murmuring please
for it to be the Year of the
Lord’s Favor, cream gushing
out of the cow’s udders versus
trickles of pale-veined water.

She grew up near the creek
where the heartspride boy
drowned one July afternoon,
skipping rocks, catching 
tadpoles where promise ended.
Was it there by those Christmas
ferns hanging over the bank,
tips eternally dragging in current?
Or there near the deep pool
situated behind earlobe rock?
On their way home from
school, different children
point out different places
using hushed church voices.

Tonight, she wades in, closes his
eyes and listens. If only she could
stand right there, right where
the breath left and face blued.
The burden might ease.

 

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