POEMS 

Thinning our little herd

 

For weeks 

we had Baskerville 

hounds in our heads

sweeping bold arcs 

through feathered darkness 

at the porch lights’ circle edge.

My father’s too-long absence

and the distortion

of farm-night acoustics

surely exaggerated their size

but the rigid carnage we’d find

stitched to the morning’s frozen 

grass did little to lessen unease.

A man who was not our father 

barked stark instruction

at my brother and me:

foolproof steps 

for burning a gutted calf.

​

from Regulator, Puncher & Wattmann Poetry, 2014