Poetry

No Animal Afterlife

See how wholly they open to us in death, to the moon, to the red elm scabbed with mites. —Bruce Snider Of course you are imagining an afterlife for roadkill, but have you ever slowed or even stopped to look closely at a raccoon’s teeth buried in tar to the gums?

Snake Cane

Norman Amos Sometimes Virginia Creeper, a tendril of honeysuckle or wild grape, will wind around the limb of a young hickory and, as both grow, squeeze its spiral into the wick. Old women who tap the ground before they walk, ready to rap danger on its head, tobacco farmers well-versed…