The Hole

The heat from the cookstove hurts my burns,

and the salt,

the water, and the dust hurt too.

I spend all my time in pain,

and

my father spends his time out the side of the house,

digging a hole,

forty feet by sixty feet,

six feet deep.

I think he is digging the pond,

to feed off the windmill,

the one Ma wanted,

but he doesn’t say. He just digs.

He sends me to the train yard to gather boards,

boards that once were box cars

but now are junk.

I bring them back, careful of the scabs and the

raw sores on my bare hands.

I don’t know what he needs boards for.

He doesn’t tell me.

When he’s not in the hole, digging,

he works on the windmill,

replacing the parts

that kept it from turning.

People stop by and watch. They think my father is

crazy

digging such a big hole.

I think he’s crazy too.

The water will seep back into the earth.

It’ll never stay put in any old pond.

But my father has thought through all that

and he’s digging anyway.

I think to talk to Ma about it,

and then I remember.

I can almost forgive him the taking of Ma’s money,

I can almost forgive him his night in Guymon,

getting drunk.

But as long as I live,

no matter how big a hole he digs,

I can’t forgive him that pail of kerosene

left by the side of the stove.

September 1934