If Napoleon Had A Daughter

By Lora Obrohta

Only a certain kind of
Man builds his house
To face the sunrise.
My father is one.
Here we are
At 5AM,
Watching dew burn
Off beef cattle pasture.

He wants to tell me again
How his mother,
Who hobbled about
On misshapen feet
Yet smiled while
Clawing forward
With arthritic, paralyzed hands
Hoping to hook
And hold on
With love,
She loaned the last 20 dollars
Of 500 he needed,
To buy his first “patch
Of ground.”

Here we are:
He swings, most days,
Strokes keep him
From the fields.
Mother keeps him from a tractor
By hiding keys
He’ll never find,
Unlike the chewing tobacco,
She disapproves
And keeps him
Outside, spitting
Into her blue ‘Pom Pom’

Hydrangeas; the ones
So many come to harvest
For weddings, anniversaries,
The sort of events,
For which he has never had time.

He wants to tell me, again
How his Mother
(Yes, I know her —
My Grandmother)
She loaned the last 20 dollars
Of 500 he needed,
To buy his first “patc
Of ground.”

I weed between the zinnias
Out front,
My mother’s showpiece and
Dressing up,
While the white porch swing
Repeats its song
Of chained whispers.
Newly released (maybe)
By vaccines,
Visiting from the city,
Listening,
As he borrows and buys
The first piece
Of empire,
Again,
WHACK,
Again.

Still,
I’ve never asked —
What did you do
To thank
Your Mother?