Patrick Vala-Haynes
My father wants a blue flame wants copper A son to worm through the belly of his house and search out the leaks. A man with the needs of a child to check the bubbling must of harvest Who’ll bend a knee and wash his feet with tears. He unbolts the door and spits his welcome The laughter wheezy and thin the lessons of his face sour and rich almost a surprise How he bitches when the coffee goes cold and no one leaps to make a fresh pot.
Fixing the Pipes
I crouched among the leafless cottonwoods and looked across the road, past the barbed wire and up the shadowed rise from Panther Creek to the field there. The coyote stayed low and to her course, rowing through the wet stubble on a journey made plain by manner, by doubt, a mother at once fierce and afraid, her nose seeking only bitter distance from the morning, her pups crying for suck as if that’s what had kept them alive and not the running. ...