Jody Stewart

Equinox


up where I can’t reach

is a Y-incision in the sky, sliced

by returning geese


far away, where I can’t hear,

war cracks and whines

I don’t feel how fire opens

or when the loud heat comes


only that it does: metal, roadkill, char

the soft hours shaking


I cannot touch, cannot wheeze

through grit, nor gulp back

the flesh-sweetened nausea

which fills the streets


in a distant city it’s dark, then holiday bright

boys pull on their boots,

slice their hands along the carcass of a truck

their wounds suck at each other


in my quiet kitchen, one sugar bowl,

vitamins, tea, books

and two old sleeping dogs

squirrels, red and grey

ground-nuzzle below the windy feeders


spring is busy


a first syllable rifts the page,

its shadow-wing crinkled as plastic bags

heaving into make-shift ditches

what will grow next?

mud, salt, flowers from a blown-out tire?


the next syllable is a shell-torn seed

caught in bacterial springtime