one arm … around me …

Across my left shoulder and around my back,

the absence of Ollie’s right arm spreads

icy fingers over me. I pull away and stare—

not at my brother’s face (all I saw

when I ran to him)—no, not at Ollie’s face,

but at the sleeve pinned to his shirt. I blurt

out my question, Where’s your arm? and he

draws in a breath, as if to answer quickly

before the question finds a way to push

the two of us apart. But then there’s Mama.

She’s been running, too, her hands white

with flour, and before Ollie has a chance to answer,

Mama sweeps my words away: Muriel, she gasps,

what kind of question is that?

It’s the same kind of question as the look

on her face—joy and horror, pride and

anger, all rolled into one. She looks at Ollie’s

empty sleeve, and at his face. She doesn’t give

the smallest glance in my direction

even as she shushes me. Oliver, she says,

we praise the good Lord you’ve returned.

She puts her arm through the elbow he still has,

and turns with him toward home.

I hope Ollie doesn’t notice, when I reach

for his other hand, how my hand flutters

back down to my side like a sparrow

shot out of the sky. I pick up Ollie’s duffel bag

and walk along beside him. Mama chatters

all the way home—so that I won’t, I suppose.

Or—so that Ollie doesn’t have to?

Blackberry Jam / Emma

Blackberry Jam

Emma

Stirring jam in a cast-iron pot,

I see, through the window, Muriel run

up the hill. She slows to a walk, then, barely

moving, approaches our door. I have never known

Muriel to hesitate when she comes into our house. I

open the door. Is something wrong? (Though there is

also a deep joy in her eyes.) Muriel … what is it? Has

something happened? She starts to answer me just as,

behind us on the stove, the sugar and blackberries

boil over. Mother comes rushing in: Emma, why

did you stop stirring? Then she has her own

reaction to Muriel’s expression. She stares

as Muriel answers: Ollie is home. One

arm is … She can’t finish. What?

Mud / Muriel

Mud

Muriel

Late afternoon, bitter wind,

eight pairs of socks half frozen

on the line, Papa’s white shirt

crumpled in the mud where I

dropped it when I ran to Ollie—

yes, I have to wash it out again.

I have to rinse it, wring it out,

and hang it on the line to dry.

I am not complaining—

look what I can do—I hold the shirt

with one hand while I reach

for a clothespin with the other!

Oh, Ollie …

Changes / Ollie

Changes

Ollie

Raspberries have come and gone.

Rows of cornstalks stand like soldiers:

one strong wind could blow them all down.