He used to skim the water,
a glass of milk at moonlight
in hand, to the place where he fell
off rock and water-weeds, listening
for the song of bugs. Blood wasn’t
the only thing rushing toward him
that night, into ears. He hears
whimpering, still. Stillness is
its own assault. He crawls back
to the house in anger after the drunks,
fallen asleep, cannot speak, remember
the grace of God, or his wrath.
Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick
www.shannonhardwickpoetry.wordpress.com
The Traps
Louise Mathias