HUNTING THE CHILDREN
Lord of the lagoon,
a Great Egret stalks
among the reeds.
A baby duck strays,
huddles between
cattail stems.

Head tilted,
the plumed hunter
snakes forward,
unblinking,
it spears
the duckling,
stilts to dry ground.
From the yellow beak,
webbed feet dangle.

Green Hills Literary Lantern

GRAY SUNDAY, 1963
I was at the sink stacking dishes in the washer
after breakfast. Dad’s face appeared
at the kitchen door. Something was wrong.
I don’t remember how they told me.

My horse was dead, spooked
into a metal post, must have hit
an artery, bled to death.
It was Sunday. God didn’t let
things like this happen.

Didn’t go to church that day.
We had to bury Big Red.
My parents wouldn’t let me watch.
The bulldozer had to drag him to the hole.
Spent the rest of the day trying to be brave
but after every phone call, I cried some more.

I’ve had other horses,
watched one die
as wind picked at his mane.
But I haven’t been back to church.

GOING BACKWARDS
I’ve never taken 157 South until today.
The road looks different, the ups
become downs, curves reversed.
Driveways that were hidden lead
to fronts of houses,
once back doors.

State route 157 North,
my road to the barn.
Daily I drive at sixty-five
to get there, passing the brick house
tucked behind white oaks,
For Sale sign at the end
of the drive. Over the one lane bridge,
I see only the right side
of the old farm house,
the tin roof and pine green shutters.

Sometimes in my mind, I walk the road
backwards. What curve did I miss
by taking the left? Was there a bridge
with room for two? Would I be able
to track the single line of footsteps
back and take the right turn?

Fathoms

GLOBE
Say it slowly; it rolls
off the tongue like a raindrop
down a pane. It can light
a driveway or map the world.

Doctors describe the results
of the blast: contamination, rupture,
questionable return of vision.
But what does he see now?
A world devoid of color
or phantom images of the blinding?

The River’s Edge

ECHOES
The void
in the house
echoes with you
like the ocean
in an abandoned shell.

Hummingbird

DIGGING FOR WORDS
Peeking out from the dirt
at the stump’s base, that’s where I found them,
black on white. I was throwing corn
to the squirrels. I dug with a stick,
disturbing the earthworms. One crawled
into the decaying wood.

Did someone write a letter–love or Dear John–
only to bury it? The magnetic words and letters
kept coming along with a penny and a blue
plastic dolphin. I cleaned it, gave it to Juanita,
she has one on her business card. The penny,
I tossed into the spare change mug.

Pieces were mudded together or joined
north to south. Spilled out of my hand
and into a jar from the recycle bin. Rinsed
them three times, wiped the words dry,
stuck them on the cookie pan.

After sorting them into categories-
body parts, verbs, single letters-
I let them sit for a week. I didn’t
write a note or create strange lines.
I put them in a baggie,
started this poem.

DAYDREAMING A POEM
two fawns bolted from their beds
of brown grass and asters
got me thinking
about where the doe was
what instructions she’d had given them
how long they had seen me
distracted by the poem I might write

horse swished his tail
humped his back
still I was thinking deer
felt a surge beneath me
was crow-hopped onto his neck
one heel hooked of the saddle
one hand twisted in mane
the other gathering up rein
just hanging in space
saw the horsefly on his hindquarters
felt the horse gather
shit
tried to pull myself back
just gave up
slipped to the ground

laughed at myself-
asleep at the reins.

have a laugh on me,
thinking of you

CHANGING SKINS
I admit I am powerless over alcohol
from AA’s “The Twelve Steps”

Easier to be a snake.
Find a spot,
breathe in slowly and feel
the skin pop. Wiggle
until the head is out,
keep moving,
leave behind
old scales.
Wait for the soft
outer layer
to harden
before you climb
back down.

Iris

CROSSING THE GAP
I see the ragged cat
near winter oak
and call. Tense, it stares
at me, slinks into the grass.

I set out milk to lure
it from the woods,
watch from behind the door.
The cat of fiction
aloof, unwanting.

The Bishop’s House Review

CALLING
Dead limb.
Hunched hawk.
Rust-red shoulders
glow. Morning breeze
flutters cinnamon
feathers.
Yellow eyes knife
empty space.
Ignored.
Kiiir, kiir
splits cool air,

no answer.