Great-uncle Crowell slapped my face
when my marble of spittle rolled down his vest:
I was perched on the sweet-apple bough
of my mother's knee; Crowell was hooked
like a thorn to a cushion of his settee
that stood in the shade of this apple tree.

When one is five, one is srprised
that grown-ups are capable of storms -
the mountainous thunder of Crowell's voice,
and lightning splintering the knotted
pupils of my mother's eyes.

                                           And then
my uncle, who had no place to go,
took cot and bowl and a soiled vest
and fled. He went to the barn to live.
"The final insult," my mother said.
But I thought of the drooling cows; thought
of the wind slapping the faceless trees.