Kip Knott
New Moon the Night You Died
The moon shed its ghost into the withered cornfield where it gathered fireflies and fashioned
them into one, phantasmic lantern. It wandered for a time, rustling between weathered stalks,
searching the night for something—anything—to give it permanence. Just before daybreak, it
finally surrendered and puddled at my feet as if asking me to lift it into my arms, or, at the very
least, forgive its trespasses upon the earth.
Matins
The breath that steams from the depths of the crow cawing on the snow-capped fencepost
mingles with my own breath that carries the prayer I recite every morning to begin my day. My
prayer is a prayer that no religion can claim. My prayer is a prayer that I like to believe echoes
the crow’s—a prayer asking for the strength to make it through one more day in an unrelenting
world full of scarecrows and birdshot.
Testimonial
The flashing red palm at the crosswalk commands me to stop. A panhandler with no hands sits
with his back to the street, an empty basket at his feet. “What has Jesus given you today?” he
asks me. I rummage through my pockets with both hands, pull out a couple crumpled ones, and
drop them in his basket. “What has he given you?” I ask with a smartass sneer as I glance up at
the sign hoping to see the walking man. “Your money,” he says, “and God’s own red hand to
take it.”
Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Delaware, Ohio. His writing has appeared in Bending Genres, Best Microfiction Anthology, Ghost Parachute, The Greensboro Review, Maudlin House, New World Writing, The Sun, trampset, Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Wigleaf Top 50. His most recent book of poems, Rothko’s Gospels, is available from Tiny Wren Publishing. You can follow him on Instagram at @kip.knott.
Banner Art:
Vincent Van Gogh, Wheatfield with Crows, 1890, Van Gogh Museum Amsterdam
