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Column 111

Drought

Intro by Ted Kooser
05.16.2007

As poet Fele­cia Caton Gar­cia of New Mex­i­co shows us in this mov­ing poem, there are times when par­ents feel help­less and hope­less. But the human heart is remark­able and, like a dry creek bed, some­how fills again, is renewed and restored.

Try to remember: things go wrong in spite of it all.
I listen to our daughters singing in the crackling rows
of corn and wonder why I don't love them more.
They move like dark birds, small mouths open

to the sky and hungry. All afternoon I listen
to the highway and watch clouds push down over the hills.
I remember your legs, heavy with sleep, lying across mine.
I remember when the world was transparent, trembling, all

shattering light. I had to grit my teeth against its brilliance.
It was nothing like this stillness that makes it difficult
to lift my eyes. When I finally do, I see you
carrying the girls over the sharp stones of the creek bed.

When they pull at my clothes and lean against my arms,
I don't know what to do and do nothing.

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We do not accept unsolicited submissions

We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Reprinted from Northwest Review, Vol. 44, No. 3, 2006, by permission of the author. Copyright © 2006 by Felecia Caton Garcia. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.