by Keith Moul
Our lovemaking in our children breeds our truths.
A child cleaving the seed of our fold comes home,
drawn as if by destiny toward family votive marks.
Skirmishing minds disturb firmly cherished beliefs.
Five years past, contractors broke out of Missoula,
like convicts in pick-ups; dozers churned up ground
to plot a road; water trucks drowned our inferior dust;
generals swing by smoking cigars, making decrees.
We petitioned no invasion. Montana dealt and dealt.
We closely watched for weeks their indifferent work.
I knew a child may cleave the seed, but comes home.
Recent seasons have left clear the double yellow line;
evacuees still wave good-bye, we still offer farewell;
heat destroys the sparrow chicks; prairie dogs decline.
Land speculators prowl, bearing local obituaries, after
easy profit should a woman be home alone. A husband
toils in a far field, readying it for another bumper crop,
the history extolled and sung of in psalms at the church.
Children need to cleave the seed of our fold for our ends.
We don’t witness extraordinary acts, or scintillate at talk
to disrupt the wind or galaxies at night, or amend beliefs
at whim, even if circus elephants lumber up the new road.
Cleft seeds rile our progeny only the length of the umbilical.
About the photographer: Liam Hogan is an Oxford Physics graduate and award-winning London based writer. His short story, “Ana,” appears in Best of British Science Fiction 2016 (NewCon Press) and his twisted fantasy collection, Happy Ending Not Guaranteed, is published by Arachne Press. Find more at happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk.
