Poetry Issue 13

   Issue # 13 : January - March 2011

Joe Collins

Rabbit Stew


      The iron’s tongue clicks. A perked
      Infant’s ear. It is the grey eardrum of sky
      Starves our new snow, our cut black creek.


      In red smokestacks, our tongues are woolen
      Acrobats. Along the trackbed
      The catalpa threatens war.


      We are heavy again, as mosses.
      The savingslight of fall boils upward. In maples,
      Our pinwheels, our transgressions.


      It is the starving season. I press
      The rapeseed in the book of mull, sidelong;
      There, it is a god.


      I raise my hands like sculptures of oak.
      Fractured, they are the shuck, shuck of guns,
      The thin red wave of a barefoot and starving guard.