When a horse kicked
my grandfather
in his chest
dropping him to the earth,
six children clung to
my grandmother’s skirt.
She worked the dusty fields
watering the ground
with a decade of tears
until one day her vision cleared
and she felt the sun on
her brown Slovak skin.
Not wanting more children,
she never took
another man to her bed,
but stretched her pennies
to plant seeds for her sons
and daughters.
Her leathered skin,
covering a thin frame,
masked a strength
when planting red geraniums
before graves of wilted children,
moaning but shedding no tears.
