The Wind Has No Nostalgia


The wind eats through us,
forcing grit down our throats,
but we were still in charge, kings
of our trailer court, blind in
our hubris until that dark little rope
cracked the whip on our
lives, tearing through our home
like Swiss cheese, launching the
bed we made love on
many thousand cool nights
into the old Sycamore tree
that your father hung a rope swing beneath for the kids to play on,
the same swing your cousin broke
his tooth on, when we
had to take him to
the emergency room. His tears
salted that ground that day,
forever leaving a patch of dirt
under the tree, a patch of skin
on the back of my head.
And now it’s all gone,
the rope, the tree, the stained cotton sheets, the war-wounded
trailer, the small life which was
all we needed, all we had.
We will rebuild, though. We
don’t know any other way.


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