by Jillian Barnet

In morning’s cold light, the house shudders—
a truck climbs the hill, shifting gears

as you do. You and not
you, standing in the window.

Our bedroom: a train through a tunnel, dark
and light taking and returning faces.

In the glass you are a boy, a visit
to the asylum where your mother does not recognize you

and chambers of your heart choke off kindness.
Out of the house’s shadow

cows pass, their black lips re-remembering
summer’s grass and crickets. Your mother

walks weightless in that field,
her girl’s palm stroking the tall grass,

stroking your head. Childhood drifts,
a gauzy moon over the barn.

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Having received her MFA in poetry from Vermont College, Jillian Barnet was first a poet and now also writes creative nonfiction. She has taught writing and literature at Pennsylvania State University and Chatham College. Her work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a variety of anthologies and literary journals such as New Letters, North American Review, Nimrod, and Image. Her chapbook, Falling Bodies, is available from Finishing Line Press.