by Adrian Frey
Thaw
Dusk draws down on me,
Face to face.
While I sit on a bench,
Near the Chenango Bridge.
The lost bodies,
Crash into the rocks.
Doggirl coils up by a signal,
Like a string of cheap LEDS
And scratches her back,
College students wait to cross,
Ignoring the river’s lovely call
And the red and green sweaters,
Snagged around the islet.
That the fishermen avoid with their children,
In May and June.
Chicken Liver Blues
The stench of chicken livers rotting in the trash
And the refuse left by racoons,
Fills the air on Squire’s Street.
Fibres from an old purple blanket,
Spread mildew over the last of the leaves,
Who had the misfortune of staying this long,
By a decaying home,
Where vermin chew through the wood and the waste.
The door left ajar,
Stars sink into the horizon,
And car mufflers fall off.
Red eyes unfocused,
Search for any light.
Last night’s frost,
The crystals on bird bones.
Wood Splitters
My father's go-devil is a wound on the porch.
The mourning dove witnesses the bedside,
He sings as we split wood.
The smell of wood dust
Lingers on our sleeves.
The dirt on a gravedigger's boots.
A dead spider curled inward
Between the logs.
He takes it in his hands
And throws it in the grass.
****
Adrian Frey is a poet from Upstate New York. Their work has appeared in APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, SPECTRA, High Horse and Blood + Honey. Their Instagram is @aj_frey and their Twitter is @slowcorecowboy