Lost Now

Jenn Blair

The old men who charged at Gettysburg,

and knew the curse of Antietam,

dreaming during fitful afternoon naps of

going back down the lane to the quiet

farm where their father’s loud curse

in the barn is only from errant nail

and oblivious hammer, their mother

out back, apron full of chicken feed,

damp hair line knotted into an unruly

bun, ready to turn around before even

a touch falls due to their impeccable

sensing, their uncanny knowledge of

the child of their body once again

standing throat choked behind them.

The corner gathering place, Friday

night plates full of collard and bean,

accordion’s long inhalations and

exhalations heard just behind red

calico curtains, the thief who turned

Jesus stunned now praying for everyone

dancing, all but impervious to

whirling limbs such is his devotion

to the Being who fell out of his cousin’s

mottled scripture book, top corner

chewed away by a teething firstborn.

The dusty summers, the store’s back shelves

stocked with soap bottles and plastic gloves

and lye, all the young mothers must use

to scrub the floor and counter, as of yet

useless items to the girls with long braids

giggling, darting around the next corner

to the yellow and red crates barely holding

in the heady aroma of chewing gum.