Loess Hills
I climb the hills next to the highway remembering
my brother in the dunes formed by glaciers
ground to dust in the floods and thaws of the prehistoric
river Mí-ní-sho-she, now Missouri. The bluffs overlook
the Corner Pocket where we got drunk.
It used to be Grandpa’s Passion Pit, with a stage
and girls my brother said wouldn’t wear pasties,
where bluestem grass still catches along the field fence.
Always—I picked fights, my brother said he would stop
coming with me, said I ruined his buzz. Once
I threw a drink in some girl’s face to get his attention,
him shouting at me, chasing me across the highway.
I remember grabbing at brome stalks and scrub trees. Calvary Cemetery
is up there. The dirt unstable; the coffins sliding away
that one time in heavy rain. I wanted to see the tops of things,
see the depression of the river, but my brother found me first.
He told me I was just like our mom. My brother with blue eyes,
the edges crinkled like our dad’s, the one he grew up with. The day
they took him, the babysitter drove me home.
*
Many Sparrows
Do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
– The Book of Matthew
Which is why I’m afraid, there’s so many of us and we keep falling. It’s not so hard to count sparrows if that’s all you do. I can do it right now, they’re gathered at my feet. Sparrows take care of sparrows, pick crumbs off the pavement. It’s not so easy with me. I have a lot left to do. Down here, sparrows get a full buffet if they can stomach the salt and hydrogenated oil. Even the prodigal son got a party in the end and yes (to the waitress), I’m quite finished. Scatter the birds when I rise. Edge out the sun.
*
Jody Hartkopp is a midwestern poet who frequently writes about growing up in Iowa and her Lithuanian heritage. She is a recent MFA graduate from Boston University. Her work can be found in the Briar Cliff Review, The Adroit Journal and most recently in the Schuylkill Valley Journal. She is a recipient of the Leslie Epstein Global Fellowship.
