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four-hundred and one
black-fat crows
fly form their
banquet cornfield
onto the two
cemetery trees
and laugh
at the stones
my brother and I
in an old brown truck
are going to grandmother’s
the crows
would upset her
all things
are death now
all she hears
are black-fat
crows
at the fair
all things are decay
the anitque dealers
are the fate of her every-day dishes
the wedding gifts
the treasures she
saves for us
the car show
is the ghost
of her honeymoon
getaway
rusting on a rock pile
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she will not look
at the horses
they smell like
grandpa
he died
he did the
unforgivable
and died
we take her home
and listen to her
complain
the doctors
the medicine
the neighbors
the house
I hate her for this
Originally published in Shelterbelt
Volume VIII 1995/1996
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Like ink from a spilled well
thoughts flood over me.
The dark, silent hours of the day
end no refuge.
From side to side
end to end
From dark corner
to dark corner
My mind is black with them:
their silent mutterings
of discontent.
Originally published in Shelterbelt
Volume VIII 1996/1997
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