A HAMMER’S WORK

On the day the family moved to a bigger farm,

painted red, it mattered little they didn’t own 

the land—the father gave his young son, 

who understood its purpose, a hammer. 

The boy had already tried to lift light

from puddles and fields, failing. Now armed

he started hammering by the kitchen stairs

every glimmering drop of light, every glistening

pool of a puddle, He distrusted birds that flew

away and hadn’t heard of oceans, but he knew

what gets seeded in the dark grows. Palms

blistering hot, he drank the sound he made,

scratching the earth, for laughter and Papa’s

accordion. His sister, my mother, still listens

and sleeps with a hammer under her pillow.

PUBLISHED IN CONCHO RIVER REVIEW, Fall/Winter 2022, Page 73