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Another woman gave birth to my son 

I was off doing other things.  

After fifteen years,
I looped back around,
leaned from the saddle,
and slung him up
behind me...

Everything about him was new.

He smelled violent
and stubborn
and refused
to sleep.

At home
he was arrogant,
the way people are
when they know
the balance of power
tilts
in their favor.

I insisted
we choose each other,

and drew him strings of words...

The skeletons
of his ears
corraled the
messy wetness of the story.
Consonants
interrupted...
rigid, percussive points of meaning...
trail markers
against a landscape
that refuses
to
sit
still.

The other day
I caught him staring.

He is just starting
to recognize me.

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Catherine Munsee

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