They were afraid of the deserted anthill. The way it
sat there, twelve-hands-high. The ghost of so much
busyness, afraid of the shadow it cast.
But they couldn't level it. That would be hubris. So
they left it in the middle of the world and planted grass
around it, a sea of dichondra---little tight dark green
cloverlike leaves, growing slowly
close to the ground.
Kanemoto: a tale of entreaty for this,
a Surname
by Elizabyth Hiscox
i. How you found your name:
Tracing the subtle, staccato sound
gorgeous, jagged,
to sumi-ink dreamed peaks of Japan.
Slopes that scraped to heights. Climbing past
pinking blossoms,
haiku-filled forests of thin-lined pines.
ii. How I found your name:
Tracing the gorgeous, supple lines of you,
fingering the delves:
our American sonnet. Rolling in the
watercolored swath grassland:
fertile and low,
spreading fresh in the shade of lone black oaks.
iii. How I've lost your name:
Thick sweat of syllables
in my mouth.
Unable to splay the rich vowels, catch
consonants quick and salty on my tongue.
I cannot climb past.
Having breathed too deep of lows and highs,
vibratoed hills, silent trees I cannot find the air.
...not as I do
by John Pierce
Pa pointed his finger at me as though he were telling God
where to strike.
I was fourteen, and starting high school in a week. I didn't
particularly
like being told what to do, but I did it anyway, though not
always in a way
that Pa found completely satisfying.
"Football?" I said, without much enthusiasm.
Pa slapped me to get my attention. He spoke with a hoarse,
scratchy
whisper.
"You better think," He stabbed his finger at me,
"before you answer."
I touched my burning face,
"When does it start?" I asked.
Pa smiled. "Tha's a good boy." He reached over
and knuckled my skull.
"You're gunna to make me proud, son."
I didn't see how knocking people down could be anything
to brag about. Pa
pulled out a tin of Copenhagen and put a dip of tobacco in
his lower lip.
He turned away like he was done talking for the day.
