My motherís mother lost track
of the canning jars and drifted
in the steam. The lidís ring refused
to seal. Green spoiled to mold and mud.
My fatherís father became a homing
pigeon blown off course in the winds
of his traveling. Many birds circled
the house but would not land.
My parents raised us in a fragile house.
Their arms could not engulf us
and hold closed the doors
as well. The wolf always waited.
I am a straight connecting line.
I clutch my calendar and burn
each day to sterile glass.
I learn to watch the clock,
the windows, and the sky.
When the crow flies low, brushing
the shrubs, the omen he carries in his beak
is the crushed stem of my believing.