Peeling white rickety doors open a 
black tobacco barn.
Smoky, dusty leaves, rafters of cobwebs
curtain a lifetime of memories.

We were the antithesis of antebellum
but new paint, new draperies, new owners
could never erase stories.
 Bones now on the garden tour.

Oh sisters.

Do you remember the 
sweet breath of a new calf?
Cold, dark winter morns witnessed 
father kneeling, pulling, saving.

My hands then calloused from twine,
stacking haybales because
“Didn’t your Daddy want a son
instead of three daughters?

We flew like the barn swallows,
away from skeleton rafters,
lessons tucked under our wings
of all kinds of failed love

Except ours.