The Promise of Something

Branches

I. Violets

Violets in the window, Grandma,
how did you keep the secrets?
Raised a pedophile,  married a
rapist, what dirt did you hide
in your lima beans?

Smoke in the air, Granddad,
pa-pa-pa'ing on the pipe,
how did you forget the guilt?
Raised a broken soul,
married a good woman,
what poisoned your seed?

Crab shells on your shelf, daddy,
dead puzzles reassembled,
how did you fight the demons?
Raised a warrior, married a victim,
what deal did you make with the devil?

II. The Knob
The ash smudged porch
still  heats in morning sun.
In its memory the house
is not charred away,
and the farmer rests in the
white flecked bench slicing
his green apple.
Thirteen pairs of children's feet
massage its steps while the second
youngest, listening to Mother hum
Rock of Ages, curls, belly down
on the corner, absorbs the warmth
into her cramping body and dreams
she, concrete and sun form a holy trinity.
Concealed by thick smelling onion grass,
the slab becomes a flying buttress for
a corroded school bus, the only witness
to the barn's plank by plank decay.
Pimpled by blackberries picked and
dropped by birds, straining to hear
the leftover stream's trickle as it divides
the Cherokee grave yard, the porch sighs,
holds itself together and wonders
what happened to the indian ghost who
once rattled chains at the yard's front gate.