Genevieve Kaplan
Fresh meat must be had on an occasion¹
As fur flown in the driveway describes, acquisition is easy.
For coyotes, or crows squawking, or wheeling at a raptor in flight.
The gestures are natural.
Listen: tiny mincing bats find live bait without exertion.
One pounces on eye-shine, goes deep in the forest in the quake of outdoors,
hopes what stares back will be prey and moves like an animal.
Or fish would do, though cold, and there are streams.
Or one could sit and wait for a small bear—for it—with pointed sticks.
An evening meal provides position for staring over lowlands.
Seeing lights in the homes there and knowing this once that one is leaving
or has left behind.
¹ One does desire it.
Fresh meat must be had on an occasion¹
As fur flown in the driveway describes, acquisition is easy.
For coyotes, or crows squawking, or wheeling at a raptor in flight.
The gestures are natural.
Listen: tiny mincing bats find live bait without exertion.
One pounces on eye-shine, goes deep in the forest in the quake of outdoors,
hopes what stares back will be prey and moves like an animal.
Or fish would do, though cold, and there are streams.
Or one could sit and wait for a small bear—for it—with pointed sticks.
An evening meal provides position for staring over lowlands.
Seeing lights in the homes there and knowing this once that one is leaving
or has left behind.
¹ One does desire it.
(I’m) seated, or imagining
the clicking wire, the cricket (who escapes. who gets
caught) preparing for some ceremony
under the white tent, in the tall grass, determined
by the gravel-tossed plastic sheeting, actually
(within the short-logged fence. the pre-planned benches)
unable to distinguish music from wind, what comes on
from beyond. seated, or imagining (imaginary) that one
(if not the other) will end, will move along, has
gone now. the gravel path gives enough (soft for
prints, slogging through, as ocean is related
to pine, that strong determined smell). of course
there’s sun here. it’s been made. the chirping developed
and admired. placed, seeking its own disturbance, its method
my entry (and the twig falls. the loped ear droops)
the clicking wire, the cricket (who escapes. who gets
caught) preparing for some ceremony
under the white tent, in the tall grass, determined
by the gravel-tossed plastic sheeting, actually
(within the short-logged fence. the pre-planned benches)
unable to distinguish music from wind, what comes on
from beyond. seated, or imagining (imaginary) that one
(if not the other) will end, will move along, has
gone now. the gravel path gives enough (soft for
prints, slogging through, as ocean is related
to pine, that strong determined smell). of course
there’s sun here. it’s been made. the chirping developed
and admired. placed, seeking its own disturbance, its method
my entry (and the twig falls. the loped ear droops)
Sifting through the air (motes, sinking down)
the dark reflects, lets them
become their opposite. a light
flashes by, a bird
in the evening, a leaf hanging
by one stem. (what kind
of bird is it whose neck
rests near its shoulders, what kind
of ground-pecking grouse?) sifting
the seeds and kernels through
the fallen leaves. wandering down
among them. o the lights of the sky.
o the calm above the roof. o
the latest gesture (o forgiveness.
o understanding.) if we wait for the sun
the course of light, the placement
of your face near the glass. or
the carcasses littering (o’er)
the sill. as close as anyone
is the outline of the lifetime of the fence.
the silhouette reaching
like fingernails in the (darkening)
sky. sly hands
of the neighbors, drifting nothing
but unkempt leaves against
the sky. I don’t know what sparks there
(in my eye, or past it), I don’t know
the stripe is the same, the scalloped
edges, fine-features, their faces bland.
or their faces out of the dark shifting
shifting away at the break of it. the smaller flying
bodies (or I’d never say
they’d influence me (unduly)).
the dark reflects, lets them
become their opposite. a light
flashes by, a bird
in the evening, a leaf hanging
by one stem. (what kind
of bird is it whose neck
rests near its shoulders, what kind
of ground-pecking grouse?) sifting
the seeds and kernels through
the fallen leaves. wandering down
among them. o the lights of the sky.
o the calm above the roof. o
the latest gesture (o forgiveness.
o understanding.) if we wait for the sun
the course of light, the placement
of your face near the glass. or
the carcasses littering (o’er)
the sill. as close as anyone
is the outline of the lifetime of the fence.
the silhouette reaching
like fingernails in the (darkening)
sky. sly hands
of the neighbors, drifting nothing
but unkempt leaves against
the sky. I don’t know what sparks there
(in my eye, or past it), I don’t know
the stripe is the same, the scalloped
edges, fine-features, their faces bland.
or their faces out of the dark shifting
shifting away at the break of it. the smaller flying
bodies (or I’d never say
they’d influence me (unduly)).
A western
The bulk of a mountain, bare atop.
Slopes become granite and dirts only linger among the erratics.
Boulders that heat, too, in the sun, for a second.
Look for the thing to be found in the rock, among the rock, a vein.
Spilt gold of possibility, escaping, outsmarting, riding up on an unpainted horse.
And crowing about it.
Hooves among shards, foundering and kicking up along the way.
The bulk of a mountain, bare atop.
Slopes become granite and dirts only linger among the erratics.
Boulders that heat, too, in the sun, for a second.
Look for the thing to be found in the rock, among the rock, a vein.
Spilt gold of possibility, escaping, outsmarting, riding up on an unpainted horse.
And crowing about it.
Hooves among shards, foundering and kicking up along the way.
Our nights were never cold
and they were always still
we decided to live as best we could
within them and to think up ways
to fill them laying heads on rocks and waning
air imagining seas to the distance
ride off and they ride off and we ride off
alone on the plain in that wind
do you hear
something it’s the birds
when we go into lands
and their heat and their danger
we remember being
afraid in a house differs rightly
from sleeping bold and safe
within the horses and the fire
knowing already possibilities for escape
and stand to their
rises and falls for neighbors only animals
when we go to the desert so we gather in
and they were always still
we decided to live as best we could
within them and to think up ways
to fill them laying heads on rocks and waning
air imagining seas to the distance
ride off and they ride off and we ride off
alone on the plain in that wind
do you hear
something it’s the birds
when we go into lands
and their heat and their danger
we remember being
afraid in a house differs rightly
from sleeping bold and safe
within the horses and the fire
knowing already possibilities for escape
and stand to their
rises and falls for neighbors only animals
when we go to the desert so we gather in
Genevieve Kaplan is the author of In the ice house (Red Hen Press, 2009) and settings for these scenes (Convulsive Editions, 2013). Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in a variety of print and online journals; recent work can be found in word for/word, H_NGM_N, Poecology, and Galatea Resurrects.
