TroubleDawn PotterFrom the barren hills a battery of menmarched and stumbled onto the muddy plain,but the wolves, impatient for spring, mistook themfor scrawny oxen and devoured them. Now the women,no longer the wives of heroes, hoard turnips and spoiled loaves.Mice gnaw the empty shelves, grind their yellow teethagainst the split handles of knives and hatchets.Children launch greening potatoes at the anxiouscattle; they throttle the last angry geese. Pale sheep wanderthe bleak forest like ragged deer, tearing twigs and blackenedleaves from the stunted oaks. A sallow pair of lambs huddlesby the half-thawed pool, where a single ancient fish lives outhis cloudy hours, calm, unfixed, a pitcher of silver and lead.At dusk he drifts into the net.[forthcoming in How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)].
Monday, September 21, 2009
For those interested in the minutiae of creativity, I'll mention that the following poem incorporates all twenty words on one of my son's third-grade spelling lists.