The Exile Remembers
by K. Joslyn Rockeman
April 11, 2007
Sometimes when I lock the place,
Throw the deadbolt, slide the chain,
I think of how Dakota doors
Stayed open through the summer nights
And just the screendoor stood its guard
Against mosquitos and the world.
No locks to turn, no nightclub noise,
No siren, horn or car alarm,
And all of us slept easy to
The sound of wind or rain alone.
Some days weaving through these streets
I honk and shout and sweat and swear
And think of how Dakota roads
Rolled unassuming through the grass
From house to house and town to town,
Fence-line straight and gravel-plain,
With time and shoulders big enough
To let us check the crops or cows
And scan the corners of the sky
Or wave as neighbors came and went.
Somehow, brilliant blossoms gathered
Year-round in this Southern warmth
Just make me think of subtler hues—
The varied colors of the clouds
And all the stories they can tell,
The greys and browns and muted blues
The winter days came wrapped up in,
The amber sheen of ripened wheat,
Gold of August's first-turned leaf,
And every shade of God's own green.
And every night, above the noise
I swear I hear a meadowlark
And dream I smell the rain approach
On phantom wings of prairie wind.
About the author:
I grew up on the prairie, moved away, and have since returned. In my case, "away" included 23 years spent in various enormous cities on 3 different continents. I wrote "The Exile Remembers" one frustrating, homesick day in Guatemala City (population: 4 million). Now that my backyard is once again fenced with barbed wire and cedar posts, I'm sleeping better than I have in years.
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