Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
HIKING RICHLAND CREEK
Pushing through sumac
reminds me how little
I know about belonging,
my boots clumsy, snapping
branches, leaving snow
turned and scarred.
As the sun dips, night is
a hawk taking wing, tail
feathers bathed in twilight.
Drawing shadows in like a cape,
wings up the valley.
With each new step I am
startled by my loneliness.
AUCTION OF SMALL GHOSTS
Colonel Banjo the auctioneer
sets up a table of glassware:
green depression, portrait bowls,
hand painted chocolate pitchers,
a Limoges hair receiver;
and then along the hedgerow, he lines
end tables, a marble topped dresser,
slag floor lamps, a mahogany hall tree.
Next to the basement steps squats
a bushel basket of deer antlers,
a stoneware crock of crocus bulbs,
a broken Nu Grape clock, hand tools, milk jugs,
the headlights of a Bel Air,
a cardboard box for the mortician
who collects windup toys,
one for Rose from the junk shop
who buys chipped McCoy,
another for the florist who sells buttons
and postcards on eBay. They bid
for connection to what has passed.
Mr. Garrison, the biology teacher,
sprays chigger repellent on his ankles
before walking the high grass
to the barn. He shoulders
a flat of faded photographs,
small ghosts smiling through sepia.
Draped over the stock fence,
Colonel Banjo displays
the toe-holed quilt the family
wrapped Terry the schnauzer in
the night he died of heart worm.
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