Katlin Walker

It is early, clear,
and the south.
A boy has been digging
all day—
he digs and digs until
he hits water and when
someone warns, careful,
it could be a sinkhole,
he proceeds, and
when someone asks,
who is the boy
burying himself?
I say, that boy is mine
and when they ask why?
I sigh, say, isn’t it all
just right? He made that,
like all things, out of
steel will
and grace
and tattooed forearms.

Then, they repeat
the question, they don’t
feel I’ve properly answered,
and so I reiterate, not because
I believe they’ll understand,
only because I want it
to dance off my tongue again,
I say, the boy’s mine, just watch
as he looks up from
his masterpiece, he’s put
himself under now, he wipes back
of wrist and dirt across brow,
turns, winks,
and proceeds.


Katlin Walker is a Chicago suburbanite exiled in small-town Missouri, where she studies English and philosophy at Truman State University. Her infatuation with wordplay comes from high-stakes games of scrabble with her mother, and garners strength from edgy lady-poets. She’s inspired by fellow weird girls and the underrated daily lives of average adults. Her poems have appeared in Windfall and Rainy Day Magazine.