Kohkum

I

and seven living children later

she walks out on him, slings their clothes,

dishes, even food into black garbage bags

they each carry something, even the little ones

toting their packages like babies in their arms

her back hurts to bend and lift

the second-youngest child when they reach the city

but she carries him anyway, until he feels

able to carry his swaddled package, until they find a place

as likely as any to stop and rest

the dusty north-central neighbourhood

one small howling dog—gristled meat, leashed

on a front lawn and Lorne, the boldest, on his knees to quiet

the animal before he slips the rope free

and the mutt follows him:

now they are one more mouth to feed

II

the footsteps of her boyfriends fall

loud in the hallway and the busted drywall sings

late-night tunes; one brings a record player, then

conveniently disappears so

Lorne moves it to the kids’ room

and the scratched discs keep them

innocent, in high spirits

and she tells herself the city does her no harm

except her brother always says it’s killing her

and will someday drive her children apart

and away, like fragments of a shattered cup

III

and still

in her dying she remembers

the spirit-well of home

and the mist like smoke rising

off the curved brush, the dry yellow dogwood

that dots the hills

and her kohkum’s soft touch

against her hair, those hands bent and knowing

her neck thin, a delicate thing