Dry Grass
The sky is a yellow drum
shrinking under their feet
as they pound against the drought
brought on with the dry grass;

she used to envision her father
burning leaves in the cerement–crest,
in the yard, devoid of the gangly and gaudy
Americanism to which she was fostered,

and her mother looked on as she became
a mother-

young mothers sitting
in the dry grass.

Mimicking baby-bird sounds,
mimicking their daughters
in regression,

young mothers falling asleep
in the dry grass, or reading by
the single flicker of a buzzing
light bulb, thinking about the west,
always the west,

while I turn myself into a river
and work myself east, always
hungry, masculine east.

The dry grass is a yellow
drum, strum like any harp
to the shuffle of her feet
as she makes her way along.