For JoAnne
towards the end of it,
my grandma believed she was a girl again:
raw in the scab,
a child pig-tailed in the Midwest
pre-destiny that belonged to her
mother’s mother’s mother
the dusk cast long shadows over the visitor’s lot
and like an instinct she remembers
that it is up to her to see that the herd makes it
back before dark
nevermind that the tall grass
leaves welts on her knees
nevermind that it’s hard to stand up
from the rocker, palms to the leather
what kind of soft god put her there?
in that kind of young where all that matters
are chores and the condition
of the only place she’s ever known
with a strength summoned from the spirit
of getting done what needs to get done
she stands to face the vision
of the cattle making their way home
