as if time and weather were condiments.
Author: Dave Bonta
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
In penmanship class,
time itself was looped, recursive, as my vision blurred and fingers cramped around the cursèd pen.
boulder field in snow
its only other crop
besides lichen
Ribcage:
simply because of that word, I have always thought of my insides as a jail.
Growing up during the Cold War
we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
turkeys in snow
each footprint resembles
a bird in flight
bitter cold day
crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons
The first people to make flutes from bones:
what must they have believed about music to search for it there?
In this new upside-down world
crops grow in the absence of sunlight, sexless and cold as an economist’s dream.
In the ideal interrogation room
the only shadows are kept like handkerchiefs in the pocket.
The sky of my childhood
was full of places to climb and sit.
dog in the fog
muzzle swiveling to catch
every scent
