There was no water at my grandfather’s

when I was a kid and would go for it

with two zinc buckets. Down the path,

past the cow by the foundation where

the fine people’s house was before

they arranged to have it burned down.

To the neighbor’s cool well. Would

come back with pails too heavy,

so my mouth pulled out of shape.

I see myself, but from the outside.

I keep trying to feel who I was,

and cannot. Hear clearly the sound

the bucket made hitting the sides

of the stone well going down,

but never the sound of me.