Anger scours the house, filling
his dark sack with our antique
laughter, our precious mornings in bed, the silver
evenings in the hammock. Nothing left
but the sharp words we keep locked
in our mouths and the hard, unforgiving
chairs where we pretend to read.
When I look up, you look up, and we know
something is missing. We stay that way
for a moment, like two people who have heard
a strange noise outside late at night: our eyes
fear-fired—ready to strike if we have to.
—Received First Place in the Prose Ax Poetry Competition
(13 January 2003); reprinted here with author’s permission
Little assassins attack my nap while I sway
in the shaded hammock: yelling, stalking up
on each other, crawling on their stomachs.
Each loud voice shoots across, the lawn echoes,
they’ve invaded each tree and shrub, and suddenly
Geronimo! they dive
from a porch banister, Burger King crowns
crushed, grass-scraped knees. One boy presses
a plastic gun to another temple; some swing
cardboard swords, cut off each other’s heads.
Flies scavenge plates of chicken bones,
half-eaten burgers and melted ice cream. I try to rest.
But can’t take my eyes
from the slumped, the half-eaten cake,
boys with grins stabbing at it,
animal they’ve hunted and taken down.
was born in 1967 and raised in rural Pennsylvania. His chapbook Soot
was co-winner of the Keystone Chapbook Prize and published in 2010 by Seven Kitchens
Press. He’s been awarded writing residencies from The MacDowell Colony, The
Djerassi Resident Artist Program, The Vermont Studio Center, and Kalani on the The
Big Island of Hawaii.
His poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Alligator
Juniper, The Sun, Cream City Review, The Ledge, and The Gay & Lesbian
Review. Several poems from Soot were scored by composer David Sisco
and will be performed on November 14th at Carnegie Hall.
www.jeffwalt.com