Nannie E.

When we took Carlos to my brother’s, he was fascinated,
Carlos was, with the pond at night and its bullfrogs
and how my nephews, armed with torches and gigs,
would harvest “bulls” for breakfast.  Carlos thought
they were “delicious scary,” fried and served up hot.
I never knew for sure whether I still missed
the foothills where my family continued to live,
on the fields my parents’ parents had tamed to the plough,
where now my siblings coaxed livings from dark loam.
Long before Carlos, my husband and I would camp
with our children on that mountain a pony cart helped us ascend.