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Manifold destiny

Casey Killingsworth

Sixty years ago my parents moved out of L.A. to Oregon,
city to wild, leaving the smog they said, and they packed
with them all of the accoutrements of their tribe, alarm clocks,
metal tools, political songs and I’m guessing

the new neighbors looked at them suspiciously although
I can only assure you they never meant harm. And they absorbed
the country life fervently, bought pigs, milked cows,
just tried to fit in inside their worn city clothes.

I’m guessing this was also not looked upon favorably by the locals,
by whom I mean all those Californians who had come before them.
Look, I have no answer about whether my parents should
have immigrated into that small, tar-sided shack in the woods,

raised their own first-generation, borderless refugees
or stayed reclined under the heat of the California sun, but what
I can tell you is they’ve lived on that mountain for sixty years
and they act like they’ve been there forever.

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