Poetry

Cave Country

Consider the sinkhole formation, the sudden black dot emerging from green pasture, growing, eating, swallowing. Cool air spills from below, bends the scorched grass. Consider the properties of this formation – the presence of dark, the absence of light, moist ground beneath the dry surface – a lost trust that…

Cutting

In the afternoons the boy fumbles with the hatchet like the razor he took from his father the day he wanted to shave the child off of his face. From my porch I watch him swing into a pitch pine at the edge of his field, its yellow flesh chipping

Cleave

The world makes no distinction between the knife that parts the wall or sorts the army your heart has built, or the one that makes room and way for love, that open space we fill with nights by the creek or sprawled on quilts to watch the Perseids fall above…