Nubbins and twigs and
less hygienic things
are poking through my socks
as I walk back through the woods
from peeing on hot and cold running
pine needles.
Wobbly with winey air,
I flip off the flashlight
and the felty black comes flailing down,
crash-landing in slow motion
on my inner city-state.
The silence is crusted
and broken, like snow.
The stars
are savage things,
they need
nothing at all from me.
O, slowest brother, born to the middle,
O brother of riddles,
who waits behind every fire:
if ever we reach
a night like this,
and if it should awaken in me
anything less than terror and abject love
pick up your heart, I beg you,
pick up your mind
like an axe made of bullets and wool,
and kindly
kill me.
(2nd Honorable Mention, Ina Coolbrith Annual Poetry Contest, 2010, Category: Nature)
YOU ARE READING
Dragonfly
PoetryWelcome to the Dragonfly collection by Deborah Fruchey. Here, the stars are savage things, toes are like crickets, and a friend is a lost wedding ring. These 10 evocative poems come from a larger work, Armadillo, available in print at http://amzn.t...
