You follow the men down the path
to the Harris Place. The youngest son
corks his canteen, hands you a rifle.
Its metallic smell startles you.
You’ve come to bend, hide, summon, kill—
your rite of passage into this family—
to marry the firstborn, to bear sons
who will learn this Oklahoma and pass it on.
Rows of wheat fields slice
the winter land. Beloved dogs
are buried among the roots
of old walnut trees.
Such bounty blesses and curses,
drives sons to college, to the city,
to East Coast career girls who talk
proper and dawdle on turkey shoots.
The men squat along the creek;
they disrupt the quiet with gravelly calls
eager birds will answer.
You try to catch up; the father silences you.
The scent of gunpowder cracks
the bright air. A flurry of feathers
falls around the party, your new family;
like snow or shreds of paper.
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