Submission
Katie Richards
1.
Moon hangs
full, opalescent
like the shimmer tops
of my church shoes.
We seek God through
the wrong side
of binoculars. Our backs
breathe heat off
the trampoline mat.
A coyote howls
in the distance.
I ask to go inside.
2.
Kumquat leaves
sheet concrete,
cover brown
recluses as they
hum themselves
to webbing. One
bites the dog. We fear
there is no saving.
Clean the wound,
wrap it round.
Pray hard the
poison’s dammed.
3.
Wind hard shakes us
as green sky meets us
in the blow up pool
out back. My mother shoos
home the neighbor kids
between siren wails,
brings us inside, drags
a mattress in the hallway,
pulls my baby sister
towards her. My mother,
who doesn’t
scream, screams
Put on your shoes
when I refuse.
4.
A woodpecker
folds its wings
within its breast,
the meeting
of two palms
in prayer. We
count the fist-sized
holes it pounds
into our home.
By law
we can’t kill it.
Each new hole
brings longing
for a new raptor.
5.
We count futures
in lightning bugs
we jar. The stars
vibrate their bodies
close to us. Nights
offer respite
from heat’s body.
The last night
we run barefoot,
a neighbor boy
slices his foot on
glass. His blood
crimsons the side-
walk in crescents.
6.
Earth shards
uneven under
the pressure of
the garden
trowel. I palm russet
dust and watch it
fall between rifts.
Into it, I spit
3 apple seeds. It smiles
back a dead-toothed
grin. Used popsicle
sticks, bled
cherry red, border
the burial.
Katie Richards’ poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in the South Dakota Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, SOFTBLOW, and The Inflectionist Review among other places.