poem

The Bear

We speculated on the

nature of the four

sturdy women camped

half mile out the

arc of beach, sifted

through the evidence, drew

our prurient conclusions,

logic bent to serve a

tasteless master. The bear,

on the other hand, drove

a shaft of certainty through

the heart of the night.

Stuck between his woods and

the Big Lake, we squatted

on a patch of sand waiting

for the northern lights or

the jack of diamonds or

another drink, or an off-shore

wind to blow the

mosquitoes back into the

trees, our ears pricked up

at the rasping chuff coming

from somewhere just

beyond the glow of our

lantern. Lulled and blinking

we huddled, shielded by

smoke from a thousand

cigars. “We’ve got to

challenge her before she

comes into camp”, he

said, then shouldered his

way into the darkness. Nothing

could coax me into the

black night full of trees

that spoke and ravens

who could tell the

future.

poem

Grand Island

If you were to ask

I might tell you about

the condition of the road

from the dock to the bay,

a flat ribbon twisted

into knots under

our tires, wound tight

enough to wring sweat

from half-buried

shoulders of limestone,

pent coils spun out into

sand beds that clamped and

held us like gnats in amber.

Maybe I could say something

about the clay we dug

from the seam in the

rock and smeared across the

bridge of our noses,

in green

and red bands down

our chests. I might

mention how easy it

looked from the beach

watching him clamber

up over smooth rock,

fingers reading the grain

for camber and bevel,

keeping quiet on the

matter of my own

jackknife lurch to the

top.