Laura Grace Weldon

They Believed Me

when, once or twice a month, as we drove

down roads clotted with commerce,

I’d say Oh no, it’s happening again!

and pretend to wrestle with the wheel of our car

as it steered against my will toward Taco Bell.

This car stalled so often I laughed off

frustration by saying one and then two

and on until it warmed to its task.

That’s how our baby learned to count to four

not long after he started to walk.

The kids figured we didn’t get fast food

thanks to mom’s annoying from-scratch

whole foods thing, which it was in part

but mostly it was money. When a decent pile

of quarters filled our car’s ashtray

I turned toward this luxury, kids cheering.

We’d thunder in hungry, order all the bean burritos

we could eat, share a soft drink refilled

until the cup got flimsy. The four of them

offered beany burps as the meal’s benediction.

 

 

 

Steers Away

Late summer, almost fair time,

4-H raised livestock

all destined for market

when three Holstein boys

tromp through broken fence

seeking freedom’s green glory.

The township Facebook page

is lively with sightings. Many

note how wily they are—

grazing close to tree lines,

bedding down far from lights.

Pictures show them leap with joy.

I’m rooting for them, imagine

a rogue cattle population

beyond the confines

of feedlots and dairy operations,

lowing at night in concert

with owls and coyotes.

Men in tractors soon bully them

back. Their captive brethren call out

as they hear them coming

and once the gate is shut

gather round to lay their necks

upon one another,

hearts again beating close,

facing together what

fate has in store—

a few more weeks before

they’ll lie on Styrofoam trays

under supermarket lights.

 

 

 

Patriarchy Chicken

On our four mile walk we consider

last night's dream metaphors,

parse our complications,

grieve this time’s many cruelties

at a brisk day-savoring pace

on this wide nature trail.

When men walk toward us

most don't move over, don't slow.

Their stride commands us to make way.

We tell ourselves

It. Starts. Here.

We deserve a place on the path too.

Until those retirees shoulder bump us, 

scolding, until that angry runner’s foot

tromps on yours, until that spandex guy

mutters bitch.

We step away, accommodate.

We only appear to be moving ahead.

Laura Grace Weldon lives in a township too tiny for traffic lights where she works as a book editor, teaches writing workshops, serves as Braided Way editor, and chronically maxes out her library card. Laura was Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books.