Runs back behind the barn
where my uncle and I, gloved
and muddy, grip, brace and yank out
briar by roots for pasture. I am
proud and grateful he has chosen me
for brawn and conversation and a rich metaphor
to roam around in. Unlike my father
he isn't afraid I'll gash myself
with the sickle or stumble
and stab him backside. I know all
I think doesn't matter in the world
but I hum along anyway between grunts,
my muscles flush and steady,
as my mind starts upstream to meet you
on the trail down in the grey and heavy
humidity that means brief showers
of big drops to chase other hikers
away from the pool tucked at a turn
in the hills. We strip and slip pale into
the cool green water we share
with a pair of floating turtles,
and find each other for a long kiss.
-
Issue 54
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust