Each day I walk to the creek
knowing I long ago gave up my mother’s heaven.
My family’s reunion is taking place
fifty miles away
—a pig sliced open in honor
of an uncle, home from saving the world.
I’m certain the bruise on my knee
is a sunset. Why didn’t I say this sooner—
The wasp behind my head is like the ladder in a nightmare.
The sun slices my yard toward the direction of spite.
Each day I hope daisies rise.
Even the dog stands there, eyeing the late afternoon.
I’m looking for a branch from which to hang
the laundry or maybe a cliff from which to throw
the entire basket of years.