I wonder if the same thing that tells a bird:
go; you cannot stay, talks
to my father's wood pile. If this is why
we throw the plastic tarp
over the meticulously-stacked mound,
holding down the logs with rocks
so they cannot migrate down the hill
to the neighbor's fire.
I used to wear gloves when stacking wood for my father.
Now I pull out splinters with my teeth wondering
when I stopped wanting so much for myself.
When the birds go away
marks the start of woodstove season--
of bury the flowers, grab the tarp, pick up
a shovel; go murder your lover and maybe
they will be a tree come next spring.
Next spring
I will be another woman;
I will look a little less
like my father. More
hollow, more like the bugs
clinging to the wood pile.
Like the isopods, the spiders, and
the ants, who don't get the wings to flee.
Me and my pillbug accordion ribs
could slip right under our plastic tarp.
It's gross and filled with holes,
but my mother won't let us get another one:
she says poverty is a disease and it's spreading
onto tarps. It's spreading onto me;
don't feed me just give me some wood and
a plastic cover as my blanket and
I'll make it to next spring.
go; you cannot stay, talks
to my father's wood pile. If this is why
we throw the plastic tarp
over the meticulously-stacked mound,
holding down the logs with rocks
so they cannot migrate down the hill
to the neighbor's fire.
I used to wear gloves when stacking wood for my father.
Now I pull out splinters with my teeth wondering
when I stopped wanting so much for myself.
When the birds go away
marks the start of woodstove season--
of bury the flowers, grab the tarp, pick up
a shovel; go murder your lover and maybe
they will be a tree come next spring.
Next spring
I will be another woman;
I will look a little less
like my father. More
hollow, more like the bugs
clinging to the wood pile.
Like the isopods, the spiders, and
the ants, who don't get the wings to flee.
Me and my pillbug accordion ribs
could slip right under our plastic tarp.
It's gross and filled with holes,
but my mother won't let us get another one:
she says poverty is a disease and it's spreading
onto tarps. It's spreading onto me;
don't feed me just give me some wood and
a plastic cover as my blanket and
I'll make it to next spring.
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Hazel J. Hall is a writer and poet powered by caffeine and insulin. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel's work can be found in Bending Genres, Vocivia Magazine, and CLOVES Literary, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at her site, hazeljhall.com.
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