beneath fence wire
some investigators. some broken
.22
magnum scope some
murder weapon. some
pieces found inside the victim’s
door. some
local hardware
store that sold it to him.
[VICTIM], 25; Christmas-tree farm
on Jan. 24, 2008 & killed
[VICTIM], 73;
his son, [VICTIM], 44;
& a
farm employee.
mr. firewood salesmen
shot all three. how deadly could you be
I would leave my kids
with you. I trust your
eyes. your frail hair is 12 lb.
test & you are old
your age is a blacksnake
& I thought I knew
you. so
how could you on the bridge
the bridge I go fishing
near. fuck you for killing
those boys. you bastard. I think
of you all the time. not
because
of your duty & plea
barging
but because of this
bridge.
my bridge & those boys.
how selfish of you to do this
to me. how selfish of me
to think you ruined
my place. my river. the head
of two others.
the firearms
used in
the crimes missing
disposed
of. I wish
that man would’ve just
killed himself or drowned
+++
just
a mile
down
a
thorn bush
behind
hog pins
strung
in
the
starkness of new
telephone
wire
the
holler
a
blister
might
as well be
my
flannel shirt
coated
in briars
the
beehives again
a
half-dollar
Dad
gave me
buy
gas
take
a mouthful of snuff
hide
in the house
J
comes over drunk
pick
scabs
on
the
porch
light
find
something
to
hold
on
to in the perch
window
stains
you
leave
the
doors locked
you
remember
the
mountains
ridges
BBQ
chip bags
that
night on the bridge
the
mountain
the
car
almost
drove off
origins
like
a shoebox
hand-me-down
sweaters
a
murky
pond
hayfields
hissing
in
wind
cattails
tall
people
the
cold
alter
now
fenced-in
field
my self-
portrait
backdrops
blackberries
along
the
parkway
rough
work
words
taxidermy
plastered
deer
hide
mason
jars
filled
with
kerosene
postcards
furnaces
black
smoke
the
road
silver
pine
riddles
fast
food joints
maybe
a
blacksnake
six
goats
four
hens
diabetes
toes
in
unison
dancing
seven
nails
my
cerebral cortex
his
liver
failures
tractor
bucket
here
is
a
sacrifice
now
God
a
stuck hog
or
lamb or
another
blacksnake
keep
we
ours
yours
truly
the
mice
out
of the barn
most
of all
bottom
feeders
bent
glass
shards
flat
picking
breaks
a
melody
a
birth
a
cesspool
no
new
eyes
here
rain
clouded
ecosystems
white
chalky
connections
or
dust
my
dashboard
readiness
certain
eyes
call
things
specific
before
the
corn
comes
Evan Gray is from Jefferson, North Carolina and
is the author of the chapbooks Blindspot (the Rest (Garden-Door Press, 2018), BODY BIRTH (above/ground press, 2019) and Dusk Melody (Shirt Pocket Press, 2019). His essays and poems have been featured
in DIAGRAM, Tarpaulin Sky, Yalobusha
Review, Word For / Word, and
others. He currently lives and teaches in Pittsburgh, PA.
the Tuesday poem
is curated by rob mclennan
No comments:
Post a Comment