Angles

I.
My little sister and I running across
Nanny's field, Nanny's Iowa, Nanny's Eighty
Acres — the three things in the world that are as old as she, to me.
By this time in October, the wheat is reaped and lays quiet in the gloaming, defeated.
It is difficult
To run on, they have pulled it all sallow and spiky, uneven.
Olivia has just learned the tale of Rapunzel, and as we run, she wonders
Why the princess' mother didn't just go at her with careless shears, leaving her scalp
Mottled and mangy, uneven.
 
Gravity laughs, the broken stalks work
To skin up her knee.
  

II.
My cheeks are my mother's, as long as the plains.
I see them at their vastest when leaving this house, passing
Before the antique mirror. Then again, once more, as I pull the door
Shut, swinging my face back for one long last look.

Caroline Miller