Helen Peterson
Your three older brothers have hiked
the Appalachian Trail in February,
wrecked bikes among the Catskills,
stalked by grizzlies in the Rockies,
so it will take more than witnessing
a moth’s dismemberment without
shrieking, having the whiskey
finally go down smooth and hot
like it should, to impress them.
These are the John Wayne, Davy Crockett,
Sons of the Pioneers who sang you to sleep,
charged by your parents when they left for Heaven
to be your cavalry and teach you all you’ll ever need to know.
So when one comes up as you coax the embers back to life
and says “That’s a damn good fire”, your heart rears up
on it’s hind legs before galloping off into the sunset.
