Cora, Coming Home from the Fields

See there on the rise by the edge of the pines—
a pair of kindling sticks—all I have
from that winter two years back,
when the cold flowed like a river
and we saw a dusting of snow.

White clung to the dry fields,
the earth as pale as a fairytale bride,
but my boy's throat was bright red.
I can still hear his coughing split the night.
We owe for the doctor,
but the medicine cost too much,
and Caleb died.

Landlord figures we can't crawl
out of this debt. We carry it
on our backs like box turtles.
We'll have to quit this tired land,
this held-together house,
and leave my boy behind.