My Mother's Daybed
My mother stirred a kettle
of yucca and yams
over a low fire,
smoke rising from embers,
hints of cedar cloaking the air.
I sat on the porch and swung my legs.
My curiosity provoked
my mother’s anger when I dangled
my hair over the ashes
to watch them burn.
My brother, his head stuck
between two branches,
was choking. My father,
glancing out the window,
saw him between strokes of his razor.
He saved my brother, carried
him over the mudflat
where we waited. Mounds of clay
cluttered the terrace.
A herd of cattle dotted the field.
My gaze landed
on an ant
carrying a grain of sugar
across the boots
my father left behind.
That night, outside
on my mother’s daybed, a firefly
crawled into my ear
and the image of my brother’s head
hovered near the rail.