Lonely Vigil
by Gail Denham

“Holding down the fort” means
feeding stock and milking in five degrees,
with Old Jake, the truck’s shaky lights
focused on the barn door.

“Holding down the fort” is breaking
ice to water chickens; it’s shattering frozen
jeans and pjs off the line after the light’s gone.

“Holding down the fort” means chopping
twice the wood Sunday night, cause
the butcher comes Monday, biscuits aren’t
made, and how will you round up the pigs?

“Holding down the fort” is watching soft snow
fill the barn path, your footprints circling the corral,
remembering how it was, knowing the beauty’s gone.

“Holding down the fort” is every time you pass
a window, or feed animals, you search the horizon,
scraping away icy tears.

“Holding down the fort” is silent dinner for three,
uneven, facing the empty space, willing food to slide
down your dry, cry-ready throat.

“Holding down the fort” means Sam Jr., and Susie
need more from you than you’ve got left. You feed
and water them, but turn from their hungry, lonely gaze.

“Holding down the fort” is carrying a hot brick to warm
clammy sheets you aren’t ready to wash yet, since then
his familiar smell would be gone too.



Previously published in Manifest West, 2017



 

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