before a wall of Japanese knotweed—tall, entangled— see from above, a reel of green, before the bones of the house fall, before the shed where I crouch beside the white goat, hands firm on her teats, falls before the walls of the pantry fall before the kitchen, the second floor bedroom where I curl with a man, the hay shed the pig pen, all fall my life is made of light has it too fallen? are those my days sunk deep in what was once the garden lost among roots of redtop, witchgrass the wild remnants of hay? yes—once hayfield, once thick tomatoes on vines diapers and overalls hung from a line peapods snapped, beans canned, sheep with black noses pushing to get grain from my hand have I fallen into this earth? the road still runs with its blue rip-tune spring still comes to take back the fallen I slide my kayak into a stream finally free of ice frogs startle, whirligigs spin in crazed circles, on the shore arrow arum leaves cover earth, my paddle dips, rises Cafe Review Spring 2017
Poems by Judy Kaber