In the Same Air
Old redemption had little to do
with the maroon strand land
when I was young. I never knew
barbed wire or porcelain tea cups
during that delicate growing time.
The cloud foxes played grace
tricks on the new spring grass
where bones still remembered
winter. The possibility of music
in my cloisonné dreams clashed
with Mr. Arrowwood, who shot
lesser night hawks above the trees.
On Sundays, after church, I ate
mashed potatoes with gravy
in the same air where my Grandfather
sat close to his 12-gauge shotgun
in the corner. Even now, I chime
between redemption and salvation
there on the hill where Jesus hung.