Before

The neighbors didn’t say much
and we didn’t say much.
The baked dirt of August
communicated nothing.
The dog rarely barked.
The horses just looked.
The pine tree waved when
there was heavy wind
but mostly stood
silent, but for the slip
of needles from branches,
the taffeta whoosh of them
as we passed around
the side of the house.
Our parents didn’t fit—
they answered our questions
when we asked. Our
mother took it
further and went with
her guitar outside
to sit and play
on the concrete steps
hoping someone would
happen by and hear.
Our friends’ parents
weren’t like that.
Our friends weren’t.
Teachers said
what was needed.
First loves didn’t know
what to say.
The vast fields were silent
when you stood at the edge.
If you climbed over the locked
gate and walked out
into the rows of beans you
could hear the rustling of
the dry pods and the clicks
of insects that hadn’t
been killed by spray.
There was something
else here before
but we didn’t talk about
what it meant
or what it was or who.