Pilgrimage

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After ten hours of driving, out of the old station wagon.
My mother, roadworn, care poor, 
steps over the fallen gate. 

Weeds up and reclaimed the place— 
grasses dry and whispering, 
ropey oaks thick with witches’ hair. 

Mother feels the walls, 
bricks turn her hands red, old newspapers 
brittle under her feet. 

This was great grandfather’s house. 
Before that, great-great. 
Can you feel our ancestors here? she says. 

Truth is, no. We sit out in the yard, 
squinting, picking grass, 
the bad laughing daughters we have always been.
Glad to be out of the car for the first time since Beaver. 

We love our laughing more than any house. 
Who needs them? Blocks and blocks, forgotten,
burn and fall. The flowers keep coming up 
and the animals keep coming in. 

This is the history of that ruin: 
Great-great Grandpa got gored by a bull 
walking back from work on the Salt Lake temple.
Grandpa built temples and Grandma kept garden 

and some people’s hearts turn to their fathers, 
but let me tell you—us bad daughters— 
our hearts are turning to our mothers 
and it is no easy task