Sharon Kourous

Planting Nitro   Sitting on the nitro wagon, reins alive between his fingers, he ignored horizons: watched for rocks or ruts in roads, attended to the reins, like nervelines to his heart.   Grandpa planted nitro against stumps of trees, and sons inside my grandma. The stumps blossomed, slow beautiful dandelions of concussed air below the bruised Ohio sky.   His hands, now blueveined, swollen, tremble as he lights his pipe. Still not looking toward horizons, he checks for grandchildren, the nearer view. Rocking on the front porch, ruts and roadholes hold his attention: A sudden jolt can shake the straw-packed world.

Copyright © 2000 Sharon Kourous All Rights Reserved Originaly published in Piedmont Literary Review