It is my pedigree,
this giving, giving:
a song each morning,
my mother’s and father’s and brother’s,
only that it might give you fond thoughts
before you recognize my voice,
think of whitened buildings
and bloodied windshields,
respond by gutter spikes.
I will only take my puddle bath
in your concrete front lawn,
feather limbs flitting away,
cigarette butts seaweed tufts,
Gatorade lids lily pads,
your reflection a shining Idol.
I will only take what you spare me:
the crusts of white bread
from two-minute sandwiches,
the bump of your shoe’s nose
when I get too close.
I will be content
with my two-twig house
in your windowsill
and just as content
when the wind comes
to blow it away.
An Arkansas native, Sarah Watkins is an educator by trade and a writer by necessity. She currently resides in northeast Arkansas with her husband. Her work has recently been featured in many publications, including Pine Hills Review, The Clayjar Review, and Literary Forest. Instagram: @sarahwatkinspoetry