Waking. Ron Rash

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First Memory

      Dragonflies dip, rise. Their backs

      catch light, purple like church glass.

      Gray barn planks balance on stilts,

      walk toward the pond’s deep end.

      A green smell simmers shallows,

      where tadpoles flow like black tears.

      Minnows lengthen their shadows.

      Something unseen stirs the reeds.

The Trout in the Springhouse

      Caught by my uncle

      in the Watauga River,

      brought back in a bucket

      because some believed

      its gills were like filters,

      that pureness poured into

      the springhouse’s trough pool,

      and soon it was thriving

      on sweet corn and biscuits,

      guarding that spring-gush,

      brushing my fingers

      as I swirled the water

      up in my palm cup

      tasted its quickness

      swimming inside me.

Milking Traces

      The paths between pasture, barn

      were no straight lines but slow curves

      around a hill that centered

      thirty acres. To a child

      those narrow levels seemed like

      belts worn on the hill’s bulged waist,

      if climbed straight up, tall steps for

      stone Aztec ruins—though razed

      each time dawnlight peaked landrise,

      belts and steps became sudden

      contrails from planets circling

      the sun’s blaze, planets disguised

      with cow hide, the furrowed skin

      of an old woman’s visage.

Sleepwalking

      Strange СКАЧАТЬ