DRY CRIK Journal

RAKING WALNUTS

All animals are equal
but some animals are more equal than others
- George Orwell

Times are hard
for the squirrels.
Nuts are scarce
and dogs are plentiful.

As I rake walnuts
I’m reminded
of pigs and dogs
. . . in cahoots

shelling out misery
to dumber animals.

A wheel-barrel full
maybe. I’m guessing
just from the heap
its height and slump

not enough, really
even for pigs.

The squirrels sit:
bookends
atop the power pole
watching every stroke

of my rake, every walnut
flung on the canvas
the canvas dragged
before the pigs

who squint their royal
fat eyes and grunt
as I rub salt
on their walnuts

as if I were stroking
a warm ham.

WINDSICKNESS:
WHY MY FATHER NEVER MARRIED

He had it:

a cancer so insidious
it killed tolerance first
and when nothing was
left to beat
not even the brow of a snake
he puffed himself up
into a storm of regret

and cursed the wind:

the wind’s no good.
Half a chance
and it’ll steal your breath
from under your nose.
It’ll whirl
the hat off your head
and make your clothes dance
up close like a ghost
or a woman just blown
into town

and when I came down
your mother wasn’t around.

SPAWNED-OUT

This is death, you know
the instinct
that steers the salmon
out of the ocean
and drives her upstream
to a gravel bar
where she wriggles
a nest for her redd.

Having done what
she could not dream
she turns crone, withers
anchors eel-like
among river bed stone
sets her lower jaw
fish-teeth gnawing water
she’s too weak to breathe.

And her roe waits for some jack
to roll the dice, to set
in motion alevin, parr, smolt –
the last good luck
for which her death
is hope.

BACK TO BONE

My mother gave birth standing up.
When her water broke, both boots filled.
She screamed. She always screamed.
But Dad never jumped
at the hook in her voice.
He let it fly
by his ear like bad advice.

He had decided – long ago –
she’d have to reel herself in
get tough, or go down the road
to Bone. She toughened.
Gave birth to a nine-pound boy.

Dad finished drilling winter wheat.
Unhooked the “three-point.”
Smashed his last good thumb.
They tried to save the nail, but
had to knife it out, clean
through the quick.

That night, I lay between them
mixing tears and blood
the way they believed.
Not a sound.
Just my heart pounding:
country music in my ears.