I was born, like a grub, under a sassafras leaf. Nourished 

by its juices, I grew thick forearms. These came in handy 

for my job in the curing barn. The farmer kept me on

even when I lost two fingers to the steamer. Contraption

was a word we girls understood as we slumped 

in the wavering heat, eating peaches for lunch. When Allie 

walked off the line one day I followed her, leaving my apron 

in a red clay puddle. We camped under moss-bearded trees 

and grew to accept the chiggers who sucked our blood. 

A moat of summer rain grew around us, and I 

would have stayed, washing my clothes in the downpours, 

building our fires from stray bolts of lightning—but I woke

in my own bedroom, a century on, a word on my lips: Pa! 

My forgotten father. I stumbled to the moonlit stairwell,

believing I might find him and be returned to myself, 

released from history, but the cars roofs shone like beetle-backs 

and all the streets were mercury. My hand on the newel post,

I watched the window blur into an antique photo: 

his hand on my head as a child, both of us stern in our muslin, 

waiting for the camera’s pinprick, the light that goes boom.