Ashland

Black Wing

We watch a bootless boy
pass the cornfield, uniform wet from the river,
hat swinging in his hand
as if still marching.
One arm gone completely
and strange internal workings splayed out to us,
intimate and suspended.

He's somebody's little baby
smoky white, staggering to the water barrel,
bent over to kiss the dust with a swoon.
Some woman runs forward
too late to catch him.

Some of us look away from his open mouth,
look instead at the corn, the crows
floating above the river in their private worries.
Tonight, when we turn in,
the candle will sputter and blow.
Pinched out easily, all flame
gives way to this wide black wing.

Brother and Me

 It's a mad day to run away from home, brother. Trees fall drunk in the orchard, heads swarming with bees.

Finally, the river has slapped the fields away, so no harvest, no singing, the roads all gobbled up.

Down in the city, women shoot darts, fed up with their lives, or so we’re told. They drown men, sleep in movie theatres, sing the same song over and over until someone gets murderous.

Today wind rushes the empty house, licks the dinner bell inside and out. We settle down to wait.

Our lives are not what we expected.

We eat little crisp buns under the awning and peep out at the sun, the big white fury booming around in heaven.