Homeplace by Jo McDougall
Awake while you sleep,
I tie and untie the strings
of what went wrong:
the farm auctioned, my father buried in Minnesota,
you and I alone
in a rented room.
I remember my father when I was six
pushing open a gate on the farm road,
stirring the dust of August.
The locusts sizzling in the grass,
a hum of dragonflies hanging sleepy above us.