Poetry by Madison Jones from our Fall 2017 issue.
A field walks through me
in the scent trails of sleep,
the long grass and cow paths
lit by shadows from a blank sky,
past the ancient mulberry
where you tried to silence
fires of mania as the cab filled
with carbon monoxide. You saw tracers
in the sky like streamers calling you
from time’s silo full of years.
When it was spring, we
pulled crawdads and salamanders
out of creek beds we dammed
with rocks and leaves,
thick as the swallow’s nest
in the corner of the shed.
Once more, the yearling
sprints into the green treeline,
and you stand, a twitching
tadpole held between
your thumb and forefinger,
grinning up at me
as if looking out
from some distant place.
Image: Van Gogh, Vincent. “The Mulberry Tree.” 1889. Oil on canvas. Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California.
