21
out of the house, sheet whip-snapping your white legs into the grass. She thinks about those legs, fish on the creek surface, the girl above them gone, an image blinked away. Last night Pa went out with Jack, like in the tales, asking eels, mine sockets, robins. We crouched in the shed, planks wet, clawed at the wood as he wailed. Moontrees, creel. Like they’d tell him where you are. Like they’d want to give you back. We didn't hate you, if you'd like to know. You never belonged to us to find, claim, hate. The night you were born the river swelled up with roadkill. Ma gave you up screaming on the back porch, Pa holding her down so she can’t plunge into the muddy water swirling ten feet away. We threw the sheets into the river. Gave it the first taste of your blood.
You grew strong in the river. Ma wasn't enough for you, and you suckled your hair black your skin white from the thousand tit cow in the hills. You’ll come out of the old silver mine in twenty years, and the churches will burn in your wake, the great Johnstown fire, to stop the floods. We'll be riding trains, somewhere, we'll be out in the world: Ma, Pa long dead. We won't hear about the ghost children singing as the town goes under. Out the train window we'll see you crossing the street, straddling a statue, running across canopies, grass growing summer in your wake. We'll know it's alright, the world is ending soon, and we can talk about you again, the time you woke up in the middle of the night and we were sitting around your bed with toy guns. You opened your eyes, and we said, "Sleep, we'll keep you safe." And you believed us.