Poetry

—divination by auras It’s Johnny Cash on the little boombox I carry as we climb the grain silo ladders to get a bird’s eye view of the town, of our dozen streets, then the father hen will call his chickens … Continue reading →

Woods erupting With turkey tail fungi And Touch-Me-Not, You know this: The stream overflows And goes back again. Going back again, Purple Judas trees open In clouds, the heavy scent of Bloodroot and unblinking Stare of Doll’s Eye Following gradually. … Continue reading →

Wouldn’t give you the name of every animal I’ve eaten even if I wanted to (unless you asked me nicely). Unsurprising pig, fish bovine, fowl–consumed their bodies all with no remorse. But if I told you I’d chewed up alligator, … Continue reading →

Doon scoops sugar over the pumpkin pulp pulled ridgy from the tinplate can like the tunnel that runs under the river where he likes to shout his name. Arlo breaks an egg over that and marvels at the cracked peel, … Continue reading →

My grandmother lifts the corners of her mouth—a smile with no teeth; open palms coaxing me to her side. It’s hot, the thick air sticky on skin. I stay at my mother’s side, fingers busy pleating the hem of her … Continue reading →

Daddy dogs with the coal boys, clocks the loose-planked floor with his boot. Resin dust rises, gambols to “Jayman’s Stomp.” The bodhrain beat time for the generations, while ghosts of fiddle and pennywhistle do-si-do in the lamplight. History’s crackled record … Continue reading →

This? he says trying on a pose. The homeowner. Gentleman farmer. How about this? But he keeps looking at me. His petra eyes. Mmm, I say. And wait. Beyond me his blue hills. Is this the house the book paid … Continue reading →

  The apple Eve were eating — Charlie Poole Charlie Poole, you picker with a busted hand, catching baseballs & breakdowns. Slurring, on purpose, songs grown in mountain coves— distinct as certain species of salamanders— then carried, gap to gap, … Continue reading →

Before branch became birch, before sky became flight, before ground became a verb, even before the sky raised its red lanterns, even while their bodies circled still inside each pale-shelled egg, the birds were waiting for wings. They were always … Continue reading →

I remember when we played wild rounds of Dutch Blitz till milking time. But now no one owns a cow, the young rarely come, and when they do, they leave after lunch. This year we gather at a state park … Continue reading →