Distanced
Two backyards over
an old woman
coughs.
Fingers strung with weeds,
I flinch at the sound
and begin my calculations.
It was a dry cough,
I’m certain, but the yards
are wide and fenced high
and there is no wind.
I judge the distance
safe
and return to the dirt.
I pinch intruders low and hard
the way my mother taught me
yanking them by the root
so they claim no purchase here
where hydrangeas straggle
among coastal succulents
and perennially fail
to thrive.
I cannot think of my mother,
2,030 miles from now,
feeding her hens and fading
daily, into the farm. I cannot
think of my father, who
will not believe his 77 years
make him vulnerable.
What have they touched
in the last seven days,
where have they traveled
and what have they borne home
to take root?
I cannot make my mind
mechanical. I pinch at the
roots and pull.
-LaDonna Witmer
Originally published at https://ladonnawitmer.com on March 27, 2020.
