Michael Diehl, Wheatness
Vacant Lot
The concrete steps lead up to air,
the foundation rectangle, cinder-blocked.
Summer pushes through its green and yellow shoots,
and the wildflower field slopes to the train track
where iron ore trembles in the rust.
Next door, my mother grew up in fear
while the snow piled against her window,
and the train rumbled by toward steel.
Why did I break my own heart?
Her time, framed by the cinder, where
as a child I lost myself amongst the ruins and weeds:
my time, fired by her window.
Next door, my mother’s mother ran through the glass.
Since then, my mother
has been picking up the shards.
Beyond the tracks, the meadow longs toward wood.
I pick a glint from my ear and climb toward air.
____________
Anne Evans