Shed
after Ronald Lockett’s “Remembering Sarah Lockett”
Another stroke of fall: Daddy
came home one day with a box
of nails. He made the announcement
just before supper. Momma said
nothing. Just kept stirring, cutting
out biscuits as Daddy hacked
down trees — right where the
sunlight could seep through
metal panels like melted butter.
He labored. Each day
I’d hear the pecking of hammer
on wood and cursing. Momma kept
stirring. One day there were
walls. The next, a roof. It became a barn, the loneliest
barn I’d ever seen. It
made me ache. He built a
fence to keep it company, it did no good.
Sad, it’s side drooped, middle sagged.
Every day he visited
and missed supper. At night
we would hear him howl. Momma’d wake me and Joe.
Drag him out. Placed a damp rag on his forehead.
Fixed him coffee. It would be a late night.
I stayed up listening to the fence
screech and the night birds trill.
I watched the barn avoid moonlight.
Like it was ashamed to be seen.
When he stopped going, the barn stayed. I visited.
A fortress of ripped metal, rotting wood. Sometimes
I’d hammer the walls, kick cans.
I’d lay on the floor. Man, oh man —
How the light hit the roof and made every
shade of fall explode. I’d fall asleep attempting
to name the colors. Carmine with a bit of
plum. Scarlet. A few sad yellows. I’d drift away
beneath the crimson shadows.
