Hattie Rothwell Watches Her Son on the Ranch

He drags, by tred-pale rope knotted 

around her belly, the heifer across the dirt. 

His mouth, rife with plum jam, 

threaded with scalped lavender stems, 

awash with a whistle loud enough 

to shoot up dirt from the heifer’s path 

onto his boots. I am of no mind 

to ask him where he’s taking her, to slaughter 

or mother, to shout Charley over 

the pigweed, the wagon splinter conceived 

and besotted by hens. I have no intent 

but to watch him tug at corduroy 

collar, to kick his spurs into milkweed’s 

gristle, to fiddle with his talisman, 

his father’s ring soldered to a holstein 

corded bolo tie. If I was generous, 

as I tend to be when the clouds are soldiered 

far from the sky, I’d say he’s the good 

of his father—a work strong torso, 

an unrefined dancer, tall enough to dust 

a ceiling if he strains. Though he has 

always been more of me—attached to every 

cough of land he’s ever owned. Too headstrong 

to leave. Just thick enough to stay.

Rothwell ranch, Dearfield, Colorado, ca. 1910s; courtesy of University of Northern Colorado Digital Archives