Grown Out of Drought
You were born out of your father’s burst
ulcer, in the middle of the dead woods.
He carried you through a thirsting desert,
on the edge of a fire-fond town,
to a cabin of sheet metal and claimed
it as your home.
to be the son of a river.
When you told him your father
spat into the seared soil
he said your mother was a frozen creek
half-a-nation away and began to fill
every well with cement.
You loitered at the supermarket and spoke
to bottles of water, calling them your cousins.
You thought of planting a hatchet
in the back of every townie
who swallowed one whole.
When they caught you shoving bottles
in your backpack, they pinned your arms
and tore off
your boots and socks
They beat the bottoms of your feet
with a cedar club till
your heels looked like two dying suns.
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