Thursday
Mar022017
VALLEY
by Lydia Moyer
I remember wild persimmons
Along the valley road
The day they found Hannah’s bones
I ate the wrinkled fruit on the tree
And you ate the soft fruit on the ground
We walked in farmers’ fields
Followed the tracks of machines over sparkling soil
Past walnuts piled like cannon balls
There was talk of roads
Of building
And making way.
You saw through the second story
Not large, you said,
Grand;
The clear-cuts dark with winter architecture in the cold sun
how different your life would have been to live here
I said
Yes.
all that debt you said
and I did not reply.
in
In-Between
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