MY MOTHER WEAVING SHAWLS IN A WISCONSIN FIELD

 

It wasn’t anything we envisioned

at the airport—boxes of yellow wood

ushered past cuffs and sensors only

to land in direct sunlight. Yet here

we are. Hats in our hands, fingers on

the pulse of the horizon. Pray against

the farmers for a rainless April, old

men sitting vigil in a field of stunted

wheat. Before long the dust and grass

will make a platform for a loom.

Like each click of the shuttle says I

grew here. Another decoration for our

wall of crops. It is impossible against

the grain, but I can already see the light

shift on the morning when my mother

will circle the house, seven shawls

in her arms. On the plane the air bit

into us, as though we would have to

pay again for asking to be transported.

 

Suzanne Manizza Roszak has had poetry published or forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, Ecotone, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Redivider, and ZYZZYVA. Roszak, who received her MFA in poetry from UC Irvine, currently teaches literature and writing at CSU San Bernardino and UC Riverside.

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