82

      Sometimes I see wagon ruts,

      a memory pressed in dried mud.

      If western Kansas had more folks,

      this would be easier.

      There might be a well-worn path by now.

      Grasshoppers whir,

      fly about me.

      I swat at them with the broom.

      My stomach clenches,

      so I shake some crumbled corn bread from the stocking

      straight into my mouth.

      Then up ahead,

      I spot the jagged branches of a currant bush.

      Late-summer birds have picked over

      the berries that remain.

      I grab at what’s left,

      red-black juice staining my fingers,

      eating,

      eating,

      pocketing the dry ones,

      squatting until my knees ache.

      I stand and stretch,

      look behind me,

      recognizing nothing.

      Something rustles,

      and I reach for the broom.

      Like me,

      the animal freezes.

      We stay that way

      until my shoulders throb.

      Then

      a jackrabbit leaps beside me.

      I drop the broom,

      fall back,

      glimpse it dashing zigzag.

      My breath comes short

      and painful.

      “It was a rabbit,” I say,

      but the words mean nothing

      to the weakness creeping up my legs.

      Here’s what’s true:

      Already

      the evening sky is pushing back the daylight.

      Gooseflesh tingles on my arms.

      I don’t know where I am,

      I can’t know where I’m going.

      And suddenly,

      I’m running

      back!

      I’m running—

      my heels slam into the hard-packed earth.

      Running—

      my breath’s jagged.

      Running—

      birds scatter from their grass nests.

      I need those walls around me!

      The pillowcase slaps my back.

      Pain rips through my ankle.

      I tumble to the ground

      and curse the hole I’ve stepped in.

      The sky is almost black when,

      limping,

      I reach the soddy.