Going Broke
by Kathlene Postma
Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon. My old man
could not fix the car.
I ran along the ridge my
face to the tree lined sky
my two dogs diving
down into the cold
fields. I was a girl of ten
still whole and lighter than
the snow, the fence lines
and the farms built with
dreams that later I learned
mostly died. Our Chevy
would not start.
Dad lay in the mud and
pounded in the part. The metal
whined. In the house, the fire
went out. The wood was
gone. My mother said,
“Take those dogs away.
Don’t bring them back.”
But they were mine.
No matter how far
I went they followed
me home. I didn’t see
the rifle in my father’s hand
but I heard the two shots.
After that I hated the pop
of hail, a lid dropped on a pot,
a door banged shut, him.