declaring war are playing on his mind.

When anything “must be made safe,” Frank

and Ollie always volunteer. Now, with Frank’s life

on the line, Ollie tries to help my family. Our fence has

been broken for a month; no doubt he started fixing it today

because it keeps his hands occupied as he tries to find a way

to think about what this war will mean, for all of us. He’s as

quiet as the fence itself: measure the wire, open the knife,

cut the wire, close the knife, quick twist, hard yank—

yes, the fence will hold. Above us, the kind

of sky that greets a thousand bluebirds.

So sweet a day. So tough.

Socks / Muriel

Socks

Muriel

Thirty-seven years ago in Denmark,

two sisters married two brothers. It’s

like an anthem, the way Papa tells it: To

this day, your Danish relatives would claim you

if you walked into the old family home.

But when Mama tells the story, she’s seeing

Ollie with the Normans’ daughter, Emma—

and me with Emma’s older brother, Frank,

pairing us up like she rolls up pairs of socks,

that little sigh of satisfaction when they come out even—

or “close enough,” if there’s one black sock,

one navy blue, left over at the end.

Emma is my closest friend; Frank and Ollie

are like brothers. Mrs. Norman comes here

with her sewing almost every afternoon,

or Mother goes to their house—they seem to think

they know us better than we know ourselves.

But I don’t see myself going down the road they

see me on, leading to a clean white farmhouse

not too far from here, me out in the yard, my

apron pockets full of corn I’m scattering

for biddy hens. I love Emma like a sister, and

I’m as scared as anyone that Frank will be

sent overseas to fight this war—I’m delighted

that he’s coming home on leave next week—

but slow down, Mother: I have no

intention of becoming the Mrs. Norman of your

imaginary future. Who I am remains to be seen—

and I alone intend to be the one to see it.

Lightning / Ollie

Lightning

Ollie

Gray sky, all-day rain,

thunder coming closer. Lightning

struck the barn in just this kind of storm

last summer. It took us the entire fall and winter

to rebuild the part of the hayloft that burned in the fire

that night. Our work is sound—Pa and I work well together,

though I wonder: Will he do as well without me? Ollie, let me

show you something! Grace runs up. I’ve told her we can use the

scrap wood for a playhouse; now she’s found a place to build it.

You said you would, Ollie. Come on—look! If I work hard and

fast I might get it done in my spare time. (Maybe, with