Returning Home after the Birth of My Son

Today in Oklahoma, the dry throats of creek beds
swallow their first drops of rain in six months.
Lowing cattle scuttle over hardscrabble for a drink.

Fiddleback spiders forgo their lonely ways
and blackwidows spare their mates. The wind sheathes
its sharp voice. A hawk settles for just the tails of mice.

I return home as if for the first time after a long voyage,
the smell of salt air still clinging to my hair,
the weight of my son still filling my arms,

the taste of a grasswidow’s kiss still fresh on my lips.

Kip Knott | Mudlark No. 26
Contents | Inheritance