I met her in daylight

.

I met her in daylight,
when I was still a young man.
She was nine years of drought;
nine years of strawberries the size
of dimes.  

A kitten was slumped over her shoulder
and she wore him like a mink stole,
she wore him out like a blue collar in the yard.
I saw the patience of her church steeple brow;
the way she stretched honey across our
fence for the ants.  

        They would have found their way home
        anyways; ants always do.  They don’t leave the hill
        with carpetbags and hope someday the place their parents turn
        in graves won't be the place they rest their heads.   

I would have kissed her
when we fished the dirt for
shrub snakes, but she was streaked
with mud prints and lamp oil.  I would have
kissed her when we fished that dirt,
but the cat was lashing its tail
across her back and
I couldn’t be her wrecking ball.

So I stood and I took two loaves
of bread that were old and hard-  
          Momma, if she got out of bed someday,
          would have chipped them for the ducks-

and I stomped them into pieces
four steps on the road to Joshua.
I didn’t know my feet would cut
like gums and bleed like strawberries
for her to count.  But she knew,
she knew how the land could
wound.

I met her in daylight
when I was still a young man.
She was nine years of drought,
nine years and already on the plow
with wrinkles around her eyes,
nine years of honey stuck to
the soles of her shoes.