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The Farm Floats, It Disappears

25,000 black-eyed Susans bloomed every summer
on the farm, but now the yard hoards
a Ford pick-up, a kitchen stove, and grandmother

is dead. I can see her traipsing through
the field, though, her fingertips smeared
yellow as bumble bees hum around her–

fat globes of light. She glides like a heron,
her slender back, her legs as long as cornstalks.
She’s younger than I am. On the hill, the abandoned

house aches for her, her garden a tangle of dead vines
and shotgun shells where vegetable colors
once radiated. The cellar has flooded

and the walnut tree can’t lift its fruitless arms.
She would never have let horses bow their heads
to grassless pasture, or cattle trudge into an empty pond.

The porch leans into itself where she used to
swing in her purple dress. She tipped back her sun hat
and gazed into the sky where geese split the air.

Posted 05/23/14
This poem originally appeared in Calyx: A Journal of Art and Literature by Women, Summer 2013.
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