Every Summer we drive to Iowa,
a drive stocked full of story
of fallen family past, Mother’s childhood,
those years all come a flurry.
Nana tells the story of Shaky Bolts.
The repair man that walked through town and clinked.
Her, among the children who are small town free,
name him Shaky Bolts, an innocent cruelty.
No Mother would name her child such a thing.
Beaded Rosaries strung through baby hands,
round round muttered breath from her children’s lambs.
Grandma Mary sits up front, her
praying passengers steady her anxious heart.
Iowa strawberries lie beneath a mossy porch,
floorboards swelling against sweet fruit.
Sticky fingers search for shortcakes, and later
catch fireflies in a field of starlit dew.
Mother talks of a talent show at sixteen.
Her skates, tights, and hair teased high—
the transformation into a County Fair Delight.
Billy Joel blasts from her brother’s boombox,
her dance routine refined both day and night.
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