The Previous Tenants

1

The couple who built our house had great plans
for this lot where they would live out their days:
he in dedicated husbandry, priming a garden
with sludge from the sewage plant, hauling stones
from the condemned homesteads by the new lake
to buttress the terraces; and she reading Aquinas
or pouring Pinot Noir for predinner conversations
after her work as a counselor at the women’s center.
She had returned to school late, a fourth degree
and a meaningful career after years of jobs
for little pay or credit, the fate of a faculty wife.
She had a gift for empathy, a true calling,
said a fellow counselor at her memorial.
And then the younger son stood and agreed that, yes,
she was a fine counselor, but a terrible mother.
“She was not there for us when we failed.
She only loved our successes.” Cicadas,
then October’s first cold night, the instant
stuck there like an arrow singing in a wall.