Frontier Arithmetic

During supper,

as his father begs the Lord’s forgiveness

for his failure as an earth tiller,

Crescent’s stubby finger

tallies of its own accord—

sums on the slab

of his kneecap.

The grandfather raves over his bowl

demanding a lost medal from

the Chickamauga Wars.

The boy spins

frontier arithmetic in his mind:

day’s remaining

stone fruit small and miserly

left to rot into the ground,

bites of gristle on the rough slate of his plate,

bolts of calico, twists of cornmeal,

envelopes of Rio coffee

so fine they are stored

in the corners of his mama’s trousseau.

An uncle rides into the farm.

His purpose is the trickster’s salvation—

two years out from a long hunt,

hair wild and long.

His woman trails him on a

bold sorrel pinto.

They propose

to ride together

into the camp revival season,

sell dry goods,

then set up shop on the frontier.

The next morning,

the uncle’s woman

allows Crescent to untether the pinto.

Crescent drums each finger

and his two slim thumbs

along the horse’s haunch,

ten soft thuds

for the last words

he ever hears

from the man.

On the trail

the woman teaches

him phrases in Cherokee

for the quality of the earth

near the river’s fork,

and the misting horizon line

of stacked mountains

rippling into the distance.

A week later

she peels away

along a stream bank

into the funnel of the Cumberland Gap.

Crescent is on foot

for the remainder

watching the dull flank

of his brother’s dun mare

and balancing a bolt

of nut-brown homespun

across the miles of water and moss.