She was thinking about windows
The window in Mr. McClellan’s bedroom that Tom had shattered playing catch
With those older boys down the street.
The windows in her own house
That could use a good scrubbing.
The window in the kitchen.
Wasn’t there always a window in the kitchen,
Right over the sink?
She doused the dishes from breakfast,
From soupy oatmeal and orange juice,
In soapy sink water with calloused hands
And wondered about the kitchen windows.
She washed the dishes when she was only eleven,
Eleven and pretty with lips that hummed pretty songs,
Eleven and pretty with eyes that looked out a pretty window-
A pastoral poem written on the horizon
And grass as high as her forehead clamoring towards the pink sky
Set ablaze by the weary sun.
What if the sun caught the field on fire?
Never mind that-
God wouldn’t allow it.
The white picket fence with whitewash sweating in the sleepy afternoon,
A drowsy gate swinging lazily from a rusty hinge
And the horses grazing-
Fancy and Glory, Sol and Luna.
Sol and Luna- that meant sun and moon.
She read it in a Spanish book her sister brought from school.
Sun and moon
Up in the sky, running through the grass
Untamed and unbridled colts standing in the field
Growing as swiftly as the grass.
Her hands flying,
Her mind wondering
Where the moon and sun
Might one day take her-
Beyond the sleepy sunburnt gate
A wasp bounced off the torn window screen
Angrily, buzzing, sneering.
Well, she wasn’t eleven anymore
And the sun had burned to ashes
And the moon had waned
And the poem had been ripped from the sky.
She looked out the window and saw the back of Mr. McClellan’s house,
The shattered glass of his bedroom window,
And little Tom pulling at the grass
That barely tickled his ankles.