Look, the wind’s causing the corn to chatter.
A mule slips through the gossip like a tongue.
Once, I let a ghost ride me over a row of pews
as a harvest wagon rides a mule. Once, I was
a soft tongue pressed against your collarbone.
It broke. And there was no honey inside the house.
And Indian summer had finally quit,
committing suicide in the stream out back.
But let’s forget the three-legged foal I shot,
out behind the barn. Listen to the corn
husk scuttling along the road in this fog.
Pretend this is the first time you’ve seen me
reach into the hollow of a tree and snap a comb
of honey from a hive. Let’s pretend it doesn’t sting.
Copyright © 2013 Roger Reeves
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.