The Pasture by Brit Blasingame

Words are rungs, he said there,

chewing a toothpick, lightly kicking

a patty cracking in the grass.

He held “a letter from his sweetheart”

and seemed to weigh something else

inside his jacket.

 

I heard him say individual “wrings”

and imagined every word

squeezing something from him.

She’s⎯looking out now,

never offering text but flinching

again and again such that

I thought a quarrel might erupt⎯

Would he reveal his hand

Would I

 

Perhaps there was thunder

in his eyes, between his legs

there’s a useless stalk

⎯we never spoke

of such inadequacies, my salary

in knowledge arrived from under

her skirt, like a diary

 

One rot out here, he mumbled,

pensive before an expanse

of cattle

then shook his head,

adding something of wolves,

 

folding the letter,

placing it

 

in his back

pocket.

 

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Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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