Late afternoon, sun
dropping west, the barn’s
shadow shifted on green
and brown grass—this was
August—to a perfect,
rectangular slightly sloping
state, a miniature Wyoming.
I looked out the kitchen window,
let go of what was happening
in the house. I reached for that flat,
translucent darkness cast
by the barn’s ancient bulk,
and held on.
Francie and Gravity
For years Francie figured original sin
was another name for gravity—
for the way we’re bound to fall.
To love, but not enough; to fail anything
beyond our own self-absorbed bodies,
and them besides. Lately she hopes
there might be redemption in defiance
of that power. Evel Knievel,
rocketing his canyon. Mary Poppins.
Jugglers, dancers, Icarus, little kids
learning to jump. Or this:
on the plains, Lakota lifting their dead
high in a tree they’ve traveled far
to find. Something like heaven.
Polly Brown recently resettled an old family place, and has a lot of conversations with crows. Her most recent book, Pebble Leaf Feather Knife, was released in 2019 by Cherry Grove Collections. Recent poems have appeared in Appalachia, Canary, Chautauqua, Naugatuck River Review, and Quartet Journal.