Head to head
two girls lie belly down
on the sun-warmed stone
of a low wall between farmhouse
and milking barn
they opened wide
for a mouthful of foamy milk
straight from the ****
but their interest lies elsewhere
they seek a name
for the male *****
neither of them has yet seen
***** still tightly furled
one of them will be molested
by the older brother of the other
who will throw himself
in front of a train
without warning
all the blame
will be heaped on her
she’ll  cry out
“You don’t know
what he did to me”
faceless victim
of yearnings he doesn’t dare to name
fog thickening
until he forgets what it was like
to be safe and sane
at first she is sure
that she deserves better
but damage is a habit
hard to shake

trunks lit by lightning
trees drunk on rain, their roots loose
in saturated earth
rain falls from the canopy
long after the storm moves on

awake when the house goes down
he knows the power is out
drunk on sorrow
reddened eyes aching
naked and powerless
he pulls on yesterday’s clothes

air still thick with words
he finds a box of matches
dusty jugs of water
lights the gas burner
from dim memory retrieves
her wooden coffee grinder

grinding coffee gears him
to an old slow rhythm
his heart caught off guard
turning backwards in time
the scent of her grows
with every turn of the crank

a man with a steaming mug
in a pool of pale morning light
he wills himself into a world
familiar and dangerous
stares in silence at a small knot of life
green frog on rusty leaf

hauling himself up the road
away from the wreckage
he nods to neighbors
not yet trusting speech
hears what they’ve heard
anybody’s guess how long

My students counted the days until they
turned sixteen, free to take their driver’s test,
counted again until they reached eighteen,
free to vote, free to die for their beliefs.

They counted days until graduation,
counting on car, college,  job, marriage, house;
so we counted too, until we started
counting back from what we’re not to know.

And now we stop our counting, up or down,
to tend a tune that will not sing itself,
to tend a love that grows with every year,
to tend each little minute and its joys.

We cannot turn back time, but we can turn
a page, tune a guitar, face the music.