Via Dolorosa

The sun has barely roused itself when I hear screams

over the coffee pot, but a glance out the window

thaws my dread. Just three teens raging

at the warm horizon. I know that cry—the one

my sisters and I hurled at the field in fledgling

heartbreak, our young throats yelled raw.

Yes, these girls threading through cotton

are mourning boys whose names they’ll forget

in a few harvests. Do they know to watch out

for mice and snakes? No—they imagine

out here’s a life without danger.

They imagine they race to mystery.

But it’s all science, really, learning how

the earth yields and heals itself. We step in

where we can with sweat, lost sleep, bruised thumbs.

But I’ll let them think it’s magic, that thorns

in their sweaters could somehow mend sorrow.

Sometimes I let myself believe the same.