TIMELAPSE
after Archibald MacLeish
—And here upon my childhood bed,
to stretch a limb and crack an eye,
to hear my mother’s muffled tread
and wonder what she whisks and why,
and wonder if she whisks for me
or for the grieving neighbor girl,
and catch a whiff of rosemary,
and hear a gray metallic whirl
rise up above the softer sounds
of sliding drawer and cupboard creak,
and whispers of black pepper ground
into a broth of boiled leeks
—and then to see her bent in a bed
of berries, or picking a bunch
of basil for a sandwich spread,
perhaps for a late summer lunch
or dinner with the family,
at six o'clock, to hear them come,
to hear her sighing anxiously
and dashing to get dinner done,
then cue the hum of family news,
the slicing of large crusty loaves,
the friendly clashing of our views
on culture, or the neighbor’s woes
—and late, to hear the kettle sound,
to hear her pouring midnight tea,
to hear her rummaging around
for yet another recipe . . .
and back again upon my bed,
to love that distant lullaby—
the sliding drawer, the muffled tread—
and wonder what she whisks and why.
First published by Raleigh Review in April 2025.
LATE DECEMBER, DARK
I follow close behind my father
through a densely wooded park
down by the river. Our path is lit
by his small headlamp. I hear only
the low swish of our skis and my own
quiet breathing. I stare into the back
of his black jacket— watching snowflakes
twirl and land and disappear—and wish
that we could drift like this forever:
slowly, with one tiny light,
together, from bend to bend.
First published by The Missouri Review in December 2024.
AFTER THANKSGIVING DINNER, ONE WEEK BEFORE HIS DEATH, FRANZ ALLBERT RICHTER COMMENTS ON THE ORIGINS OF HIS IMAGES
Well, part of it is just wandering
with a pencil. Getting used
to how it feels in your hand.
The weight of it. Allowing shapes
to form on the paper somewhat
randomly until— flash!—
you notice a figure, and
then develop it.
First published in Forgotten Frequencies (NDSU Press, December 2023).
THE ROAD BECOMES A RIVER
According to a shaman, I once lived as a shoe salesman
and the sack slung on my shoulders is a weight I carry still—
Sitting near you, sipping tea, my heart fills with muddy gentleness
and my road becomes a river I am not prepared to cross—
I think now of the back stoop at my childhood home in Willmar,
pouring water from a pitcher, simply watching water move—
I remember, as a toddler, singing wildly in my car seat,
a warm light from the window running through me like a straw—
Now I sense you wading deeper and bend down to take my shoes off,
but find that I am barefoot and my shoe-sack has been drowned—
Who is it who undressed me on the banks of this wide river,
and what is that splashing toward us like some small silver fish?
First published by North Dakota Quarterly in May 2022.
CONVERSATION WITH A CORN FIELD
I cried out to the corn field,
“I exist in a state of ceaseless bewilderment!”
She replied: Yes, but beware the alternative.
Allow strange seeds to sprout from your soil, if only for a season.
I do not understand your human language, but bewilder and be wilder –
are these not the same thing, pronounced in slightly different ways?
First published by Rust + Moth in September 2018.