Bull under a big sky in the prairie west of Houston.

Leaving Home

Asphalt or sand, the desert swallows unceremoniously,
like a man who no longer has salivary glands but
insists on eating stale tortilla chips anyway.

What is grass? Anymore. I used to wander, susceptible
to scrapes of greenbriers and musk thistles. Now
these are absent, but the cuts come from elsewhere.

Like a pig, I am too conscious for my own good.
I would be much more content if mud-
wallowing were my highest form of inquiry.

Now, free from the pen,
I wander about,
eventually returning.

The farmer didn’t even raise his voice.

  • About

    Ashford King is a poet and songwriter originally from Versailles, Kentucky. He currently lives in Washington, DC, where he works in international development and volunteers with the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights. He graduated from Harvard University with a degree in Romance Languages and Literatures in 2015.