Weekly feature by: Clara B. Jones

She can’t recall the moment she heard you in the forest
trammeling trilliums with boots heavy as cows who
sacrificed their skins to shelter your feet. She does remember

walking across shards of soil, a friend turning to blow
a milkweed seed aloft in humid air while she raised a glass
of seltzer to her lips festive as a child in Brooklyn eating

chips and oranges, her friend singing Yah-O-Yah to celebrate
her birthday, beholding blue banners before them on
Biltmore’s lawn where her grandfather might have poured

chilled vodka for Robber Barons watching the sun set over
mountains before returning to offices in New York or Boston
or Philadelphia, not to chipped benches in Prospect Park or

to favored spots in front of Junior’s®, lost men slouching
across the Brooklyn Bridge to hustle, descendents of Cherokee
and slaves upon whose backs your house was built.