Jo McDougall

Going Back

My father's fields lie empty. 
My mother's crape myrtles 
have died in their sleep. 
Daring the abandoned steps, 
I enter the farmhouse 
and my old room.

I used to open these windows 
to the sound of a mockingbird, 
the moon creaking up 
like a stage set.

In the silence 
a wasp bumps its way 
along the ceiling.