As kids, mom would refuse to let us watch Little House
passed the opening titles, a lithe girl bounding down a hill.
“Too sad” she said, knowing the hells that came, like shells
overhead, into her life and hers, mom’s and the girl’s.
She hoped (mom, not the girl) to save us from the outset,
somewhat futilely, from the lethal sadness of the world.
Hoped this solution would help us elude what would come,
what always comes: sleet, rain, the elite plowing prairies.