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.
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.