when there are storms.

the july babies born of

broken trees and heavy milky snow.

when there are storms.

the july babies born of steadfast crustfree august momentum.

you thought we’d forget about the mission we’re on.

you thought we’d be distracted by your temporary disasters and mouthfuls of expiring

foilage. you thought we’d be distracted by your natural pausing.

when there are storms. the july babies born will sing songs

orchestral exclamations certain to struggle free

from the strangles, mother.

tonight, I don’t believe in here or there,

snow falling or rising, safe or boiled water.

I only believe in you.

Still I see the four of us

wrapped in the mountain’s shadow,

a horse the color of iced tea

eating from our hands.

Lucas shows off his new bride

and we wish their cottage

with its scrawl of chimney smoke

was ours. When my camera

swings out, it takes all of us

to wrench the sticky strap

from the horse’s mouth.

He bares his sugar-cube teeth

for one last click

and we head indoors

to watch the fire devour perfect

loaves of wood.

One year later the horse is sold,

the pasture grown ragged,

and Lucas is gone

in an echoing shot

that stills every rocking chair

in the valley.

His wife learns the news at the diner

over lunch with her lover.

“She might as well have pulled

the trigger herself,”

an old man hisses.

The gallery of faces before her

fades like an old photograph,

the cold stones of their eyes

the last thing she sees

before she falls,

daylight snapping shut

like the afternoon she tumbled

into the river, but this time

she is not a little girl, this time

half a dozen men

will not jump in to save her.