Homestead

There are cups of cold coffee and half full water glasses and loose leaf pages of handwritten misspelled words/stories invoking ginger kieffer & bitter little blackberries & toes deep in the clean rugs/ Jacob & Emeline run past the house penning a tiny wave as they pass me/ in the midsection of night, in headphones, I jump and Pogo to "The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" washed in a joy reserved for someone without adult responsibilities. I disappear for a few moments in the kitchen's incandescent light. The girls (the ones that I love more than my own fingers) laughter takes over the living room. /Skirt steak tacos for dinner/ We walk the neighborhood avoiding the house giving away tiger kittens/ Emma Long Metropolitan Park, cyprus knees sunning on the Colorado River and the fields of elder Texas wildflowers that will be dashed in next week's heat/ we are not a fictional family and hunt in the woods for a hidden Letterbox, only to find it dashed to pieces/ & lately, I close my eyes and imagine the breezy sweep of stands of yellow pine/ Massachusetts and stealing Silver Queen corn from fields on the way home from Ashfield Lake/ stray cobblestones erupting through the pavement in Holyoke, and ocean. / never departing... / "& the day that I decided to stay true to myself -to you - to us"/


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America