Wary of rattle snakes and tarantulas I walk around

the remains of the abandoned falling-down house

faded and gray, at the edge

of the cotton field.

 

Overgrown with weeds

I peer inside, fearful

traces of ancestral memories

will creep out and overwhelm.

 

Dry grass from the drought is crushed by each step

plastic bags, trash from a distant highway

blown up against the broken back door

and the hammock I brought on a visit

 

years ago is rusted and torn

     No one will sit in it

Mom had said, speaking from a past self

that would never relax.