To Boise, and onward
-for Mike Wilson
The crags of my world quiver
beneath the roar of the dynamite that was
placed here to carve out the roadway,
the stones all shiver and scrap across the
wheat as it slowly burns out into desert;

We drive for hours, hours in the shape
of calamity and silence, onward to Boise
for the burying;

the city is where neo-Victorian bungalows
arch up from the bent yew trees, the elm
steeples, statuesque beside the shuttered
windows -

He died in bed asleep, we are told, as though
truth were as bitter as tea steeped too long,
in Boise, where the children howl in the hallways
and sisters weep before a cauldron of homemade
chicken noodle soup and the yeast from the
bread rises beyond the mouth of the oven,

beyond the mouth of the bedroom, only
hinted at, we may never walk in, or the
small house that is in fact quite large, though
she has never been there.

The brothers never spoke, just yelped
like hounds on the hunt,

but daughters outlive their silence, embrace
inside a country club where the booze stench
fills her nostrils:

thank you for coming
they say

we will always, always come.