Francine builds a metal shed in the middle of nowhere. I walked with stacks of feathers and his father’s tractor wheels, she writes, someday we’ll have tea on the tin when its raining. Francine wants everyone to belong to a field. This one for grazing, she writes, our hearts on wheat and the beaten wheel. Francine builds, braids daisy chains with fishing wire. My hair, she writes, will one day expire. His father loved his mother once in a wheat field in summer. Francine wants everyone like this. To have tea on the tin when everything’s just beginning. To grow, she writes, the heart needs a shed in the middle of nowhere. Secrets in stacks and trailer-pulled mercy. Francine knows hurt can be. But lightness comes, she writes, to fathers, mothers, St. Gabriel. It does.