Mawpin

MadisonPoulter-Blue-img_0127 — Photograph by Madison Poulter

mother unfolds
his flannel
        in their room,

the cotton stinking
of potash
        and smoke,

to redress
the scarecrow
        convalesced

for months—mouth
unsewn, filled
        with stars—

in our field.
Mawpin. Bird-scarer,
        cruciform

at our barbwire fence.
His denim, too,
unwashed, untouched,

last year’s soil
        lithographed
in both knees

from kneeling.
        They’ve returned,
the rooks and sparrows,

sensing absence,
the silence of his rifle.
        They’ve returned

to fat themselves
on his harvest.
Outside, we knot

the ankles,
tourniquet the sleeves,
stuff chaff

and straw into this father
costume, a guard
against a hunger
        he knew too well.