Untelling

Snowpack for two weeks

after they cut him out.

We felt confined

to the house, unable

to walk the sparkling valley,

sit by the river where, in spring,

we’d dump the dog’s ashes.

~

Gray titmouse, lone bird

approaching our feeder,

chipping sunflower seeds

off the hard cake

hung on our porch.

~

When the sky is clear

it is the richest blue.

Otherwise, clouds like snakes

have crawled across them.

~

Rainwater-filled ditches

resemble cough medicine.

A virus has curdled our son’s gut,

swollen his liver so he cries out

all night. We prop-up his pillow

seat with two unread copies

of War and Peace, trade sleeping

with foam plugs jammed in our ears.

~

Silent tears

streaking your face

again.

~

Buds on trees,

small promises.

Warm nights

awake with him

I sing, over and over,

Elvis’s “Hound Dog.”

Velcroed to my chest,

he fights. Screams louder

than I imagine two lungs

this small can muster.

~

Spring winds sound

like the sky is buzzing

with low-flying jets.

Last night you slept

four hours straight.

~

Daffodils bloom.

Our son’s fat hand

grasps a yellow head.

Balmy days.

At dusk we sit

on the porch, waiting

for the frogs to reveal

themselves.

~

Two nights of hard freeze,

back-to-back, threatening

all living things who thought

it safe to emerge from winter.

Behind the wheel I feel

like taking my life. If only

the trees were sturdier,

able to withstand the force

of a speeding car.

~

Now, every morning, turkeys call.

Sometimes fifteen, including one white

bird, stand in a neighbor’s yard while,

overhead, a melon-rind moon

hangs in the sky, as if

whatever god watches the night

forgot to toss her refuse in the celestial trash.

~

What looked like overgrown trees

gain new purple coats. On days fog

descends into the valley, frogs chirp

until lunch. Now pureed beets, sweet

potato, blueberries crushed through a sieve.

Geese honk, and tom turkeys gobble.

I cut myself one afternoon at the kitchen

counter, and remember my dad used

superglue to hold together split flesh.

I can’t get myself to stop. I drag the tube’s tip

along the wound, leaving bloody froth

that, when dry, looks like glob froghoppers

leave at the base of trees.

~

Green apples burden

trees until slender branches

drop them onto the ground.

Deer find rotting feasts.

Alongside the parkway,

tourists pick wild

strawberries that are sweeter

and more flavorful

than farm-raised fruit.

~

When our son wakes,

I can see fifty yards

at best. Out of the fog

a fawn follows its mother,

suckling at her teats

swinging above the tall

wet grass. The deer

have orange coats now.

Hickory trees are heavy

with hard green nuts.

Our son likewise dangles

on my chest. We walk

a fence line. A speckled

fawn races by so fast

I hear a grunt as it strains

to move quicker.

~

It rains most afternoons,

big fat drops spaced widely

apart. Looks like we could

walk through them without

getting wet. Disheveled

songbirds alight on porch railing,

shake water from their feathers.

~

How dark a laurel slick,

how lacey a Queen Anne,

how supple purple thistles

ready to bloom. Swallows

and bats have returned.

At night they pirouette

across the pasture.

Full moon sitting

over the mountains,

a spotlight shining

into our bedroom

the first time we make love

since his arrival.

~

The sun settles into a notch

in the mountains as if cut to fit.

~

Color comes first to trees

higher up the ridgeline.

Yellow of hickory, red

of white maple, purple

of sourwoods from which

bees make our favorite honey.

Deer have deep brown coats,

almost black, and geese

checkmark a lavender sky.

~

Late one night

you mistake coyote

for a party of drunk women.

~

Our son walks by the time

a hard freeze kills the last

of our summer garden.

Three-toed turkey tracks

on the road. His hand

gripped tightly in mine

feels like a juicy plum.