The Cranes. All legs, thick and sturdy—
Kentucky living
Gardens and no running water
Else Lula’s baby wouldn’t have died in childbirth
Deszmer ran for the neighbors—
the scar on her chin, eighty-two years stubborn from falling
Ralph ran off
crick ran dry
family carried on, the children too,
With school, the army,
becoming nurses.
Vaughn spends her parents' money on a motorcycle
Kermit plays his mandolin for Ida
Annie, with fur coats still growling
in the closet and mother of pearl hair brushes—
Annie, a lady with lockets, my sister’s name-sake.
Who came before the Cranes, who saw the Lion’s Head ship
as wooden deliverance from Ireland’s hunger?
Later they roosted in Oak Ridge, behaved, made the bomb
made quilts—
I got the quilts.
The one I sleep under tonight one example.
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