There was a sloping yard
a pine tree
a front door—
no mat.
The purple room was mine
and had a window to the porch.
If I had stayed longer
it would have been perfect for sneaking out.
A kitchen with slanting windows
a piano salvaged
with splinter keys
and aging ivory.
Two twin beds
with truck-covered comforters
one fiercely rumpled,
the other gentle, smooth.
Another room:
a low mattress beneath a crack of light
a bathroom
with a toilet.
I used to find her there
on the garage sale table
knees high
crying.
Another yard
this time behind
with blueberry bushes
and corn we used to shuck on stools.
Squash and broccoli
that they took such sad pride in,
the sunflowers
which were all my own.
Long stems that grew in iron soil
whose seeds were only good for eating
but as a child I was allowed to choose—
I donated them to the winged.
