badlands

if there is any strength
asleep in my heart,
a whisper of sacrifice or patience,
the roots lie with
the ghost of a mother who raised
five babies without
running water, electricity, or community

on a homestead she lost,
like the sioux before her,
forced to begin again,
to make way
for a national park

the irony of her hardship
turned into a
camping vacation

An outsider
might think to observe
a desperate unhappiness
among her scribbles, but one thing
learned in this bliss
and isolation is that
no one knows her--what they
think they know has been framed
for her ease.

she prefers to blame the clouds,
but the morning sun,
glaring with possibility,
is the culprit

her sight gone,
wind-blasted and burnt,
feeling nothing
but tired
and thirsty

possessing everything
she knew how to want--
& still the ache--

she'd pray if she thought
it would help

someday she'll look back
on these precious years,
the memory of a
hand clutching a bottle,
gambling her soul
to undo
the mistakes to come

she sweeps the dirt floor,
it doesn't do a damn bit of good,
but she keeps at it--

the ritual of control
softens the silence
between patty-cake
and tears