Traces

by Sarah Anderson
 
Which branches are not worth twisting and saving? Which ones
             should we burn? 

Light pierces through the narrow window, all glitter and dust. We search
             long hallways, find bead collections, notebooks, 

their tiny keys. We turn a mountain trail, find traces of the animals
             that tested us, hid from us.  

We are stirred into a deeper want. In Tennessee, a blue-eyed boy
              will celebrate his second birthday, face scarred by the field 

where they found him one hundred feet from his mother. She
             will remain for him a young woman

in a photograph. What draws us to the places where we were left behind?
             The boy’s father slows down every time he drives by 

that barn, the side of it a fiery-afternoon sun-red. Inside,
             uneven windows edge with dust, field, the dark of distant trunks. 

Tools inside the space of any barn will tilt and fall, weight of rust,
             divided in light between floor boards. 

He pictures swallows flitting against the ceiling. The way he took her
             around the corner when everyone had left, lifting

her thigh, cupping the back of her knee. Yes, that barn where they prayed
             for the light to stay still in its quiver on the beam, 

and for the sunset, like their heat, to emblazon them. What draws us
             to the places where we were left behind?

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Sarah Anderson holds an MFA in poetry from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers. She has sixteen years of high school teaching experience, and she currently teaches at Berwick Academy. With her husband, she owns and operates The Word Barn in Exeter, NH, a gathering space for literary and musical events, where she runs a reading series (The Silo Series) as well as various creative writing workshops. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including December Magazine, Raleigh Review, and North American Review.