Growing Pains

The hammer rested against the nail–still as a coffin lid,
High in the barn rafters
Where I listened to the trees
While, in hand, my mother’s mirror blinked.

A toy soldier held guard, trembling
Over the few stray bullets
That had settled like slugs
On my Grandfather’s workbench.

Next to the broken shower head,
The head of a deer sat dead as a prophet
Or trophy among the steam,
Upon a nearly restored church pew,

Offering me a glimpse of life after death,
Or what it might mean
To be born again–stripped
From the flesh.

Atop Aunt Eunice’s crate of pickle jars
The scratched vinyl record skipped
With the mellifluous voice of the Rev. Billy Graham
Begging to be turned off, or atleast flipped over

To the other side.