Chaff
Conor Scruton The girl sees blinds cut light into slits that fall on carpet. She’s heard tell the sky holds a harvest moon and realizes she has no idea what that means. Maybe Pagan spirits wander wheat fields, brush grains with windy fingertips, or maybe it’s lovers’ last chance at shadow meetings before hearts fall from rib cages into winter’s deep maw. Maybe somewhere a man takes advantage of light with slow midnight scythe sweeps, a tune floating from his pipe into Tennessee blue nothing. Suspended she told me if you leave the trail to the left when you reach the low bridge, there’s a grandmother tree with a swinging rope you can use to jump in the Red River though when I got there the river wasn’t really red and it wasn’t really a river, not in the middle of July drought that dwindled it to a deep creek, I stood high in a crook of the grandmother tree and felt where her hands must have held the rope -- let yourself fall like branches are dropping you into water -- swung out, dangling I saw the river run from horizon, saw its hand outstretch to grab snatches of gold from the sun, a tributary in search of a handhold, in search of any reminder of life left floating somewhere upstream |
About the author:
Conor Scruton lives in Bowling Green, Ky., where he helps students with their writing both creative and academic. His work has appeared in Red Mud Review. |