for Sharon

1.
I called from work to wish you Happy Birthday
and ask about dad. You told me it was raining,
which meant he was scrubbing his station wagon
or shaping soil for onion buds, massive
hands crusted with mud. You must have hated
how he made everything about himself,
leaving you to pass messages between us
               like a Ouija board.

2.
You called back to tell me
the storm had gotten so bad
all the egg hunts were cancelled.

3.
When I landed in Kansas, snow
had buried every landmark--almost as odd
as riding in the back of an ambulance
past enormous white hills. Sirens filled
the empty streets like lamps. Until then,
I had never seen you pray--we didn't
really attend church. This was the closest
we would get to a miracle.  

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Nathan McClain lives in Southern California with his wife and three children. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lily, Words-Myth and Andwerve.
E-mail: vonadia at gmail dot com  

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