Through the
Hoof-Dragged Dirt
 
I’m a barricade, a prickly wind,
a breathing candelabra,
a small, abandoned bed.
 
You’re low tide’s pilings
writing the poem “Boy
in a Red Cap Wielding a Stick.”
 
I’m sandwiched between dire
and die; you are stop, listen, survive.
You’re the wooden fence —
 
mossy, peeling. I’m a shopping bag,
abandon-crammed. You’re the ferry’s
rumbling engine. I’m shook up
 
by the black-eyed rat the fly needs
so, so badly. You’re grouping
the cold, the dark, the cravings.

In the cook pot of silent,
I heard a gate click shut, heard
a fence say please – a new coat of paint.

Martha Silano

If you have any comments on this poem, Martha Silano would be pleased to hear from you.