In the evening grandfather came,
an empty spirit from a far place.
In this old country, he was under
the earth, held down with a stone.
Grandmother cried as she worked
milking the cows, turning them into
the meadow, carrying the pails
of milk on an oxbow over her neck.
On hot afternoons I swam in the pond
supported by water which held me
when I wanted to be held and I knew
even then it would let me sink
when it was time to sink.
The church commanded us.
We obeyed. It was stone
and wood and not the soft
lap of water where we were
forbidden to go. On summer
evenings the air was thick
with singing insects and
water held the last of the sun,
suddenly the surface broken by
the leap of a fish into twilight
falling back into itself.
I wanted then not to be
the muddy creature grandfather became
or the milky stooped grandmother
caught between two galvanized pails.
I wanted then to leap,
to rise up out of what was,
to leap into twilight,
to fall back into my true self.