Poetry | January 06, 2022


A slash pile always looks like it hurts.Torn limbs & uprooted stumps.The land about dozer-rutted tractor-gouged.Trees all gone a raw face a black boil it hurts.I wish we didn’t have to wait until the first snow.Wish we could burn it now.My grandfather told me one winter in the ’30s they fed all the chairs to the fire.Then the table the shelves the beds.The wall between the bedrooms.They had to burn the house to keep the house warm.He said he didn’t much like to think about it.Wasn’t even sure why he told me.He was dragged half a mile by a horse when he was fourteen.Ever after one leg an inch shorter than the other.For some reason it’s easier to see his limp when he’s walking away.

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