Of course, I believe in magic,
so when Papa promises there’s water,
I follow him. Viburnum petals, like a false
surrender, brighten the brown pasture,
cling to the coiled, sun-bleached grass
even the horses don’t want to eat.
I follow him to the cherry tree, where his leather-
gloved hands snap off a thin, forked branch,
then into the field. His overalls hang loose
where his hips should be. I bound after him
in muck boots twice my size, gaping just below
my knees. I cradle the nearest soybean,
make a wish because that’s how I understand
praying. He holds the y-shaped branch loosely
before him, his palms opened to the sky.
Elbows cocked and stiff, he takes a breath
to balance the weight of our world, and looks up.
Eyes closed beneath his ballcap—faded
and frayed, but cleaner than dad’s which I took
this morning, my ponytail tangled
in the Velcro strap and the bill sliding
around my forehead. The sun rushes
on Papa’s face, and we walk like this for a while,
carefully stepping between rows. Him, blinded,
and me, waiting and tugging at his clothes,
so he won’t step on the beans.
Papa freezes when the twig suddenly
jerks down and the pointed end shakes.
Before I can protest, he offers me the branch,
turns my palms up and places the curved ends.
I imagine I’m holding handlebars from a broken bike
or pushing an empty wheelbarrow. With a hand on my back
and sawdust sifting through his beard, he guides
my steps until I feel the twig quake, the tip pull down
on its own, bowing like the slim neck of a heron
drinking from the lake. I half expect to see the earth
opened up below me, a hook sprung up to pull
the still living branch back to its roots. He spears
the clay-top soil with shovelful after shovelful
until finally a pool of water forms below,
winking our reflections back at us
and holding the pale sky in its magic mouth—
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 2.
Emilee Kinney hails from the small farm-town of Kenockee, Michigan, near one of the Great Lakes: Lake Huron. She received her BA in Creative Writing and History from Albion College in Albion, Michigan and is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Her work has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, West Trestle Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, SWWIM, and elsewhere. Kinney is a poetry editor for MAYDAY.See all items about Emilee Kinney
