First set of thesis poems

Untitled
The men are handsome as tom turkeys, full bearded in
the neon lights. They have pumpkin headed
children and wives that
sit at home and ache to be
touched.

Their women have voices
lonely as crow caws, released only
under cover of
darkness and down pillows. They
have birthed children with
strong brown necks, children
who have learned to tie their
own shoes and carry wood
in for the fire.

They know soil, the soft spots
of a deer; they know the strength of
bailing twine and how to scare
the skeletal coyote
that haunts the fields at night.

The harvest is over. The cheeks begin to
hollow. The corn has all been trampled into
cracked stalks in the
rain. The farmers sit at the bar, the women, the
edge of the bed, the children
on bales of hay and dust. They
carry seeds that lay, still and forgotten,
piled in a cache beneath
their layers of cloth.

Untitled
The certainties of age
hurt like poison. Emotion
has ruined us. We ride across
the country, after the hounds baying
with some elusive scent.

The hunt is never over, the horse is
never spent. And though the grass
is trampled, it will grow for
other chases. The hounds will start
their frantic
sprint toward
nothing. We’ll blindly follow,
to and fro like trapped
wolves, scratching the gray of our
heads and hoping to hear a
cry of victory.

Pleasure
I want to turn
you loose in the woods,
one inkthick night, and
send the hounds after you. The
thorns will tear at your skin,
claws of dark.
Their spotted pain will be like
raindrops on a roof when
held to the storm of
jaws and foaming
teeth that await your
throat.

Torn down, ripped
Like thin paper. Silver
shards of pain in
your vision. Flesh swept like
cloth from your skull.
Your brain will spill
on the roots of trees, moss
of sponges. All you
were, every
boneword and breath and
recollection,
smeared on the
leaves and eaten
by flies.

I would thank the stars, I would
feel the hardness of
a smile on my face.

Untitled
And all the farmers came,
their eyes dimmed and blind.
The hunt began—a long road
through pathless trees and hills,
broad leaved rows and
slapping corn.

Their bitterness drove them, stocky
legs sprung
with bullets and furor.

Finally they killed the wolf.

Thin legs folded,
white teeth exposed. Blood
matted and eyes cloudy, empty
of tricks. The farmers
marveled at
his size, grown from fat sheep
of wintertime nights. They
gathered round him, a flock
of burlap hens in the dawn. The wolf
began his singing, in waves
from the still warm throat,
clear in the cold.

A song of the
North, great white devilish,
acts marked with slyness
in the moonlight.

Yet their was pity
on the farmers’ hands, shaking their
voices. The song was broader
than the sky. The birches
leaned as though sad
and disapproving.

The hunt had left no time for
thought, yet the kill had
left æons
in its wake.

Class poems until October

Kin
My father’s father wasa gravedigger. He scraped the dirt from under his birdclaw fingernails every night to asymphony of crickets and rockingchairs, the stones of the dead like anaudience asleep onthe hill beyond his windowpanes.
He was said to have loved turningover earth, loved the loneceremony of the shovel andthe damp smell of cemetery violets mutely trampledunderfoot. Through him my fatherlearned a certain reverence fordecay, for fading, fortears. He learned the same dirgewalk andhe grew the same shadows beneath his eyes. Everyone thought
My father would don the same gray uniform and prune the same roses that grew wild onthe edge of the land. But my fatherpicked the roses instead. He’d learnedto see the glimmers in that night. The old tradition
It hurts, almost. Newschool anticipation, a quiet plunging in the stomach. Novelty
can be cruel, unyielding, a brick wall tobe scaled. A pioneer
takes the long road. A pioneerpicks the hard fight. A
pioneer watches the papers flylike doves in the wind
without sparing an inch to save them (though they
could be saved). The newbeat is unfamiliar, and the
tune seems broken. Let thenewcomer grow deservingly
old, and let uspray for warrior’s
hearts.

Untitled

Sundays, I’d put on my socks withthe lace on the cuffs. The HolySears Garb; I was worthy.
The church rooms smelled like the black moldgrowing in our barn on the straw. I hoped they’d found something
golden for the baby Jesus,and that the animals didn’tconfuse him with grain
as he lay in their trough. Once atcommunion I thought I saw God in the candy sunlight
that quavered above the anguished cross. My gasp drew stares; the old birdwomen all shook their heads
and raised their eyebrows. Those specialsocks itched! I was too short to seeover the pews! I loved

Slip

It feels like regret when summer goes. It hesitates and stalls, a tease, unwinding Grapevine fingers from the latest roses, freeing The stars to begin their winter march across the sky.
Trying to trap this breeze in the glassSigh of a bell jar would fail, bees’ clover and Deep woods pine smell lost to the sicklySmell of decay. Some hand unseen brushes
Leaves by the flock in a waltz to theGround, and all the moths begin their slow rambleToward death in icy fields. The sun staysTo watch the world curl to sleep, dry, with eyes
That lack their simmer, grown to slabs ofMarble when the harvest has come in.

Carry On

The logs pass byto other towns
and brush the stonesthat grow with moss.
The children ridetheir blackened backs
slip off beforethe land has changed.
The trees have passedone thousand years
beyond the bridgeand past the boats
tied on roots ofdarkened homes.
One mind, these logs, one path to go
behind the swans. No catching on
the baying groans—old mill beside
the shrouded road.No home is here.
The home comes fromthe float and bob.
The home comes fromthe flow.

Women, the edge of the bed

The men are handsome as tom turkeys, full bearded in
neon light, with pumpkin headed
children and wives
sitting at home aching to be
touched.

The women have voices
lonely as crow caws, released only
under cover of
darkness and down pillows. They’ve
birthed children with
strong brown necks, children
who have learned to tie shoes
and carry wood
for fire.

Knowing soil, soft spots
of a deer; knowing strength of
bailing twine and how to scare
skeletal coyotes
haunting fields at night.

Harvests are over, cheeks begin to
hollow. Corn, trampled into
cracked stalks in
rain.

Farmers sit at the bar, women, the
edge of the bed, children,
bales of hay and dust.
Carrying seeds that lay, still and forgotten,
piled in caches beneath
layers of cloth.

Years are fast, and

the certainties of age
hurt like poison. Emotion
has ruined us. We ride across
the country, after the hounds baying
with some elusive scent.

The hunt is never over, the horse is
never spent. And though the grass
is trampled, it will grow for
other chases. The hounds will start
their frantic

sprint toward
nothing. We’ll blindly follow,
to and fro like trapped
wolves, scratching the gray of our
heads and hoping to hear a
cry of victory.

Pleasure

I want to turn
you loose in the woods,
one inkthick night, and
send the hounds after you. The
thorns will tear at your skin,
claws of dark.
Their spotted pain will be like
raindrops on a roof when
held to the storm of
jaws and foaming
teeth that await your
throat.

Torn down, ripped
Like thin paper. Silver
shards of pain in
your vision. Flesh swept like
cloth from your skull.
Your brain would spill
on the roots of trees, moss
of sponges. All you
were, every
boneword and breath and
recollection,
smeared on the
leaves and eaten
by flies.

I would thank the stars, I would
feel the hardness of
a smile curling on my face.

Savagery

Finally they killed the wolf.

Thin legs folded,
white teeth exposed. Blood
matted and eyes cloudy, empty
of tricks. The farmers
marveled at
his size, grown from fat sheep
of wintertime nights. They
gathered round him, a flock
of burlap hens in dawn. The wolf
began singing, waves
from a warm throat,
clear in cold.

Farmer bitterness drove them, stocky
legs sprung
with bullets and furor.

The birches
leaned as though sad
and disapproving, and

the hunt had left no time for
thought.

Kin

My father’s father wasa gravedigger. He scraped dirtfrom under his birdclaw fingernails every night to asymphony of crickets and rockingchairs, stones of the dead like anaudience asleep onhills beyond his windowpanes.
He was said to have loved turningover earth, loved the loneceremony of the shovel andthe damp smell of cemeteryviolets mutely trampledunderfoot. Through him my own fatherlearned a certain reverence fordecay. He learned thesame dirgewalk andgrew the same shadows beneathhis eyes. Everyone thought
My father would don the same grayuniform and prune theroses that grew wild onthe edge of the land. But my fatherpicked the roses instead. He’d learnedto see the glimmers inthat night.

Be brave

I. It hurts, almost. Newschool anticipation,a quiet plunging in the stomach. Novelty
can be cruel, unyielding, a brick wall tobe scaled. A pioneer
takes the long road. A pioneerpicks the hard fight.  II.A fresh song begins.The new beatis unfamiliar, and the
tune seems broken. Let thenewcomer grow deservingly
old, and let uspray for warriors’ hearts.

Carry On

Old fish hooks catch
on rotting bark—

the logs pass byfrom other towns,
brush the stonesplush with moss.
The children ridetheir blackened backs
slip off beforethe land has changed.
These trees have passedone thousand years
beyond the bridgeand past the boats
tied on roots ofdarkened homes.
One mind, these logs, one path to go
behind the swans. No catching on
the baying groans—old mill beside
the shrouded road.They do not stop

for rest and end,
home is not a stop.
The home comes fromthe float and bob.
The home comes fromthe flow.

Squirm

Sundays, I’d put on my socks withthe lace on the cuffs. The HolySears Garb; I was worthy.
The church rooms smelled like the black moldgrowing in our barn on the straw. I hoped they’d found something
golden for the baby Jesus,and that the animals didn’tconfuse him with grain
as he lay in their trough. Once atcommunion I thought I saw God in the candy sunlight
that quavered above the near-goldcross. My gasp drew stares; the old birdwomen all shook their heads
and raised their eyebrows. Those specialsocks itched! I was too short to seeover the pews! I loved