by Craig Slater
The Farmer's Lesson
When I refused
for instance, frowning
stubbornly up at his patient lesson,
he’d pluck snails from the garden
and throw them over the high fence.
I remember crying and running to the house,
not wanting to hear them shatter as they landed.
Even then, convinced more by
eggshells striped like ancient, faded tigers,
than the hidden magic of sullen
vegetables that struggled to grow,
scatter-shot with holes
for some reason.
For Richard Again
I think of your
hands moving like
for a place
Long boned and
fragile, as if
crashed kites children
failed to fly.
The same resigned
sadness as they gesture at
the gathering clouds.
Craig hails from New Zealand and currently peddles books in Sydney instead of hugging West Coast Trees. Years ago, some fool opened his mind with a copy of Trout Fishing in America, and he hasn't been able to close it again, no matter home many poems he scribbles down. Mayonaise.
Seeking words with sizzle, poetry that wraps us in burning ribbons and won't let go. Send us your best!