Under the Cathedral Tree

When I fall asleep, I dream myself back on my mother’s lap, the wood stove going, our
house windows darkened with storm. I breathe cedar kindling, the thick weight of fir logs,
watch my mother sort brown beans on an old baking sheet, shift them by turn with her
fingers, her counting rhythmic as a rosary. My mother grew up Catholic. She believed the
holy ghost could come and go like a horseless carriage, floating. We could get in and go, or
we could stay and wait. She also knew the will of the body, the will of water, believed in
gravity and everything else they teach you in science. At this old house the rain keeps falling.
The windows keep getting darker. We cannot see the hills, but we know they are out there,
filling with water. I lean against my mother, oblivious to the million eggs inside me waiting
to become children.



Trains

For me, the tracks’ song
was about the hills beyond,
blue water, a lonely horse
in a field. It was the coppery
note in the river silt, something
not still for my tongue. Not
a map but the place you don’t
know you’re going. Before
GPS. Before billboard. Before
come on home for the holidays.
Tonight this air tastes like coins,
like the skin of morning.