For Grizzel McNaught (1709—1792)

Bound in a chain of women, I
sometimes reach out with alarm,
and catch, sometimes, an old reply.

My chain connects me to the farm
that formed your ground, that fed your sheep.
The chain is just a Scottish charm,

but you grow frantic if I sleep.
The roots that dig around your tomb
deepen, till I reach to keep

the feel of your low-ceilinged room,
the branches that burst from your broom.

 

First collected in Eve (Story Line Press, 1997, Reprinted by Carnegie Mellon University Press Contemporary Classics Poetry Series, 2011)