They say the country is for those
who can't handle the cracks in hand-
laid cement. Or for those who
prefer the wild weeds to the wild
traffic idling at each crossroad.
Never do they see the cracks in
the handrail Grandpop made or the
wild traffic of ants heading to the
sunflowers Sister just planted.
Grandma would have set them
straight saying if Pop didn't know
how to drive then she would have
ask Big Jim to walk her to
the corner store for some meat.
Never do they see the revolving
bodies that wore down the
exterior of the storm door and
caused the early retirement of a
20 year old door handle.
Mom would have yelled down
the street for Cousin to come set
the dinner table, but two little helpers
would have dragged their patriarch and
matriarch to fold the napkins first.
Never do they see the holes the mice
chew as a project to keep Aunt busy,
as if Uncle did not do that for her.
But they all see the product of the
country turned to bitter bark which
breaks when the grass touches her.
But they see core which cries the sweet
scent of the orchard tree she sketches
in her mind - the one that grows from
the cracked cement they all see too.
DJ McErlean-Hopson is a writer and a women’s health enthusiast living in New York City. She has been writing poetry since she could make her dolls talk, and has recently began writing for Examiner.com and Suite101.