Alabama,1992
My father grieves his reflection
in the sopping nightheat
of cricket-song. My sister watches
with strange eyes
from a crib in the corner.
My mother finishes a puzzle
with her quiet heart—belly
big, the moon
of her luminous
in the gas lamps.
Her father passed
the year before
and she will soon give birth
to a child who will grow
to restore antiques
and hate every mirror
they find their fathers in.
And in Utah, somewhere
my grandmother is turning
Hank Williams off
on their family radio
as the yeast bread rises
in the oven and the garden
twists outside around itself.
She will not listen to him
again for many, many years,
each of her children scattered
like Coyote’s many stars.