Her life is thick
as a fist full of loose hair
I am fragile beside, gossamer
threads frayed, straying like
split ends,
flyaway off my braid.
.
I used to wear dust feet
to walk ditches
and disappear in alfalfa.
I have forgotten.
Deer browsed beyond fences
behind the east eighty.
I didn’t watch them
when I was broken whole, we
already knew each other.
I have almost forgotten
all those sweetgrass dreams
full of sweet peace
I used to hum. Something like
mown clover.
.
I hold my thick braid
in two clenched fists, keening.
My sister will adopt me tomorrow and
her son will wrap his small fingers
about my fists.
I will head for adobe as if I belong.
.
orphan poems 