Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2014
Follow me up to the criss-cross
Stump on Canley Hill. I will
Slip early from the trundle by the
Groaning fire, sloshing in Graham’s cracked boots.
My hands will snap stems of
Daisies in the north field, through the
Last paddock where Jeremy the plough horse
Died in his sleep last spring.
My breath will bite the empty air, frosting
Icy baubles on the gentle slope.
When I feel the slack on my calves—
Shallow tread, easing gravel—
I will whistle with the dawn owls
Retreating to their glowing
Nests of mouse fur pellets and shredded bark.
Come quickly, then; trace my even
Steps from your curled loft mattress on the
Pounded earth. You’ll jump—
I know you’ll jump.
Land on coiled springs from the ladder,
Leap, rocking on calloused hands for
Balance and soft courage.
I will leave the door ajar. Momma’s
Torn brown coat will be
Swinging on a nail in the barn.
It will be cold—late winter cold, with
Knotted hands and jackhammer claws.
It will be dark—lying sun dark, with
Whimpering light and purple bruise shadows.
Walk two to one, two to one in my trail.
Find me where the oak and the maple trees
Croaked in the hail-bent storm.
Cradle your slingshot.
Carry pebbles in your pocket.
Bring my gun.