Poetry | Page 2 | wisconsinacademy.org
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She lifts two buckets from his truckbefore he can tell her what to do.The clank and weight of skimmers, rodsand spinning reels, plastic tackle boxesfull of lures that once fascinated, now

Listen. Even now, as ice cracks,a chickadee sings its spring song.

Speak only true names. Redwing blackbird.Orb-weaver eggs. Dragon cladonia.

When you want to clarify what you meantto say, say thank you.

Winter mornings I walk outside before the world starts up again. An occasional car, the early bus with one person on it. Sometimes the wind hasn’t even started and the heat from the chimneys of all the sleepers rises up above the houses.

This isn’t a protest, you understand.Bonfire in May with wood that’s gone dry,we’re burning the things that cannot withstand.

It’s still a ways away. It’s going to go away, you know. It’s still there. It is, or it isn’t. It’s in the mail. It’s in the console. It’s the perfect fit. It’s me versus you. It’s something we can all look back to. It’s forward looking.

The border is never real. Imagined, invented, imposed,hardening space at the current confluence of cultures,away from the poles and centers, hinterlands holdingtheir own, identities carved out of contrast, distinct

I tried to read his favoritepoem at my son his funhis fune         read at his funeralhe’d you see died there wasa motorcycle a sunny black motorcycleand red the blood his head was

Before the moon, there was Neptune.And before that, one giant sky rock took

a bite from another, spitting in anger—a wet thud went to Earth who, spinning

What does this life requireof me. A constellationof sharp caution empties: emberscrackle in a nearby firepit. Texturedbranches seduce the night, considerthis was all you ever thought

The origin of every book is loss.There is not a word

in the beginningand language always listens

to its end. Tell mewhat has left its mark

upon the names you give to starsyou cannot see

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