In the hot July of 1897, a farmer in the fields
saw his young wife rise from the squat
where she had watered the plowed earth
of the prairie with her urgent urine.
He came to her then and shedding his denim
took her hard and fast as she laughed at the clouds.
After, she rose and with her bare hand wiped his seep
on the front of her skirt, as she thought of washtubs
and the hundred chores to be done, day-after-day.
She smiled then, for this was knowledge, and it was hers.
On that day a son was conceived. He would thrive and grow
and live to fly above the clouds, to Paris, in the belly of a jet.
Rob Dakin is a poet in Athens, OH. He has poems forthcoming in a Least Bittern Books anthology, and a manuscript in the fridge.