circles of limestone or some other gray rock situated in the yard
she found them in someone’s winter wheat field last summer.
warm outside at 10:52 PM and I try to ignore the mosquitos
humming at my elbows
pink with itching
pork with icing.
the sky so deep black I could press my palm upward
supination and it would be covered black ink
flip it over again to make a print on my mother’s deck
like those banners at children’s museums
handprints in red, yellow, green
pure colors from the tube
obnoxiously bright unlike the hazy grays early
sometimes I pretend she is staying in West Virginia
for a while and she’ll be back next spring more frail
then the last.
and my mother hasn’t redone our house
stripped the yellow orange cracked tiles with a
straight and even navy.
I visit home like a stranger
and lie on the deck next to the field picked rock
pressing my palms upward
touching the awkward thick goo in the sky
why not dip my whole body
drinking refrigerated peppermint tea from glass bottles
with profound quotes and proverbs under the
we saw a mountain lion in the headlights
the other night driving into the valley the most eerie
feeling a deformed deer with a winding tail
tricking me begging me wanting me
its swish swish sounds drought covered through
one of my favorite stories as a child was called “Moss Gown”
and I thought of all of this when the mountain lion
asked me to follow.
but she redid the kitchen and nothing is cracked
except the mug she cannot part with.
and she is cradled in earth
underground in West Virginia far away from my
mountain lion fantasies in Montana…
(For my Grandma, of course).