Grey: A Poem


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She possessed a certain softness,
a particular fleece of the soul––
the sort of gentleness that would open up for you
the way a great grey cumulonimbus
splits its blustery darkness
to make way for hot rain.
The wool of her spirit
was not that of the sheep––
it was sheered from a ram
in a lightning storm, woven
by Rumpelstiltskin into the semblance
of a turtleneck sweater,
concealing the howling electricity
of the wind and the crackle
of the lightning and the fiery scratch
of the hoof––indignant, defiant, newly naked––
against the crisp beige
of the long-droughted grass.

Groundhog and Shadow: A Poem


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My doting mother
is the ground.
Her soil womb
does not make sound.
I nestle into
blackish dirt;
inside of her
I cannot hurt.
But once each year
the men must know
if I will see
my own shadow.
They tear my body
out of her.
Relentless sunbeams
burn my fur
as I am laid
upon the earth,
the child of
inflicted birth.
Then suddenly
appears a ghost,
the bluish spectre
I fear most:

its formless bounding
in the grass
(its undulating,
godless mass)
will churn like thunder…
but it’s me.
Beneath my feet,
the ghoul I see
is only light
which I have stopped,
or God’s intentions
I have chopped
before they landed
on the lawn.
I, entropy
have made a yawn
in greater plans
than I should touch.
The beast below
will prove too much
for my faint heart—
I whip around.
The kindness of
the silent ground

is all I know.
It’s all I want.
My mother shelters
me from haunt.
The dark down here
denies my strife,
yet men uproot
my silent life.
Their inquiries
of coming spring
will force me towards
a violent thing
I know no creature
should confront.
I hate the hubris
In their hunt.
I close my eyes,
knowing again
this time next year
I’ll meet the men.
I pray to end
solemnity,
so maybe next year
men will see.