When we moved it’s because my father
fell in love with eleven acres.
None of us knew, but the sight of it, wind
combing through the fields,
the same that ran through his hair and
reddened his cheeks the time
he first stood on the edge of the Grand
Canyon—the red oil egg yolk
swimming in his eyes and a cavity of clay
proportions opened up inside
generations of narrow streets and empty
fields. Now I catch a hidden
smile folded within brown sweaty skin
face to face with those eleven acres.
And those eyes sip in the trees and
every weed and flower and fence.
They drink in the blue canvas covering
of his fields, tall and brown, swaying
in the summer. Hands rolled on hips.
Body facing the smells and sun and saplings—
Western region of the body
He looks out and he loves
the space, they call it country air…