Margaret is a field
In the field goldenrod thickens. Weeds grow so tall
that by August you can't see.
Margaret is a path through the field and she is where
the path disappears.
Margaret is the house with the red door and the room
with the maroon floor where four children sleep a troubled sleep.
When they wake, she sends them outside and they raise a calf,
a collie, each other.
Margaret smokes so she can see each sigh. She smokes constantly.
The ashtrays overflow. Later, as therapy, she will make ashtrays.
Margaret is a dream Margaret once had. Margaret drinks toward the dream
she can’t quite forget and doesn't dare remember. She wakes
to choose sleep.
She is a wrong turn Margaret took or several turns; she is bad about directions.
Margaret is not a door that opens nor cruelty nor a bed nor forgiveness,
but she can be forgiven.
I repeat, Margaret is a field and a path through the field and the point
where the path disappears. She will not come to find you.
Because she will not come to find you, you start out deep
in this gold and weedy field.
Colorado-North Review
