The Backyard Then

It used to feel too big

and mostly abandoned, leftover land between

neighboring cul-de-sacs and the elementary school.

Still, I would visit its few humble stations —

the cracked stump by the fence always crawling

with ants. The narrow space behind the garage

lined with unused slate, just standing there

waiting for my parents’ hands. Then there was the shady dirt

under the old maple tree where I read, cradled or

sinking between dying tentacle roots. 

Was there ever any glory there? I can remember

a few humid evenings through the crack of the back door.

Twilight hanging like a velvet curtain, the thinning

pine trees at least only silhouettes.

My parents would be at the top of the empty hill

sitting at the rusty, wrought iron table, in an orb

of orange candlelight. I knew they were eating artichoke

with hot butter, scraping off the meat of the leaves with their teeth

and just casting the rest away.