M A R G I E  The American Journal of Poetry     www.margiereview.com

Published Annually in the Fall                                     MARGIE  P. O. BOX 250, CHESTERFIELD, MO 63006-0250

I.

Again I return to that leaning barn of whitewash

and wind-warped rafters, weathervane that never spun,

rim-rust that rejected our free-throws and hovered,

a ratty halo, over the tenuous forts of February—

so much repacked snowmelt shadowed by that

squatters’ shack where they fought over how long

our mother would outlast a rural doc’s diagnosis.

When in my seventh year they came with stretchers

and sirens, we waited in the truck. You distracted me

with the atlas from the glove box, how finely it unfolded

like all the tomorrows I sensed were not to come.

But it’s the barn I remember, whistling like a cavity

at the end of our drive. And most of all, that you

heard it, too. That you heard it, but did not flinch.

between turnip rows, the gnats who rose in waves

from the knife-edge of sun and field: all these

went before us. So, too, she who clipped coupons

and made us wear our stocking caps no matter

how it mussed our hair. Brother, I lied when I said

I didn’t notice the baby’s fist of your lymph nodes,

over-swell of white blood cells roused to fight

what isn’t there. This is the only way I know

to repay you: to hide my dumb lies, and this poem,

and these pagan tears, until the last barn owl

shrivels to dust and it no longer matters to do so.

MICHAEL MEYERHOFER’s first book, Leaving Iowa, won the Liam Rector First Book Award.  He has also published four chapbooks and recently received the James Wright Poetry Award from Mid-American Review.