Trajectories
The Oregon Trail is marked in places
By wagon ruts, and vegetation
In clumps thicker and greener,
Though indiscernible to the naked eye.
With infrared, could you trace
The trail from grave to grave?
When we built the new house, I left
Our infant son beneath the lilac
In the old yard. Who owns that home
Now owns his bones.
Those children left behind—
While the husks of their mothers
Move on, and on, one foot,
One foot before the other,
Newborns beneath cornerstones
Of new lives, and Isaac, whose name
Was mirth, bound to the well-worn stone,
Knowing, as mothers know, that God
Destroyeth the hope of man,
Hope and mirth bound over
For the promised land.
(Originally published in Artful Dodge, as “Traces”)
