Paradise

I grew up in a village: now

it’s almost a city.

People came from the city, wanting

something simple, something

better for the children.

Clean air; nearby

a little stable.

All the streets

named after sweethearts or girl children.

Our house was gray, the sort of place

you buy to raise a family.

My mother’s still there, all alone.

When she’s lonely, she watches television.

The houses get closer together,

the old trees die or get taken down.

In some ways, my father’s

close, too; we call

a stone by his name.

Now, above his head, the grass blinks,

in spring, when the snow has melted.

Then the lilac blooms, heavy, like clusters of grapes.

They always said

I was like my father, the way he showed

contempt for emotion.

They’re the emotional ones,

my sister and my mother.

More and more

my sister comes from the city,

weeds, tidies the garden. My mother

lets her take over: she’s the one

who cares, the one who does the work.

To her, it looks like country—

the clipped lawns, strips of colored flowers.

She doesn’t know what it once was.

But I know. Like Adam,

I was the firstborn.

Believe me, you never heal,

you never forget the ache in your side,

the place where something was taken away

to make another person.

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