Wendell Phillip

Pitch beneath your fist and fork
Toil of fields was my dark refuge allowed
Where I grew strong and calloused
That boy’s dumb just like his momma
I heard you say at the feedstock.

I would wait and work
Your grain in scythe and sickle
White knuckle snath and bound tongue wrath
Keep my eyes down flights inside
Until the days that you fell ill.

I found you in your room
When momma left for town
Bled you out like a river of snakes
Your throat babble a gurgled whimper
Like when Kelly caught in the combine.

Now the fear is in your water eyes
I stroke your cheek with crimson oil
My gentle way you tried to damn
I wish I never become like you
But I finally become your son.