Tuesday Poem

Bay Window Lauds

Cul-de-sac Pastoral

The sill plays a cruel joke – thrones me. Frames me
lording over lawn mower stripes – myself

in a shallow trench. In grass blades. Myself
persisting, despite a dickhead sun – me

in chlorophyll. Early, I find myself
swaying – me! in the black chokeberry, me!

in the rabbit’s throat. Me, the rabbit. Me
dancing out pellets. Out-dancing myself –

my father’s pellet gun, the hawk. The joke
is a bright belly full of dark hopping

along my father’s garden & the joke
small, between wrapped talons, is the hawking

too, is the axe sun, swift, rising, this joy.
This joy, it swallows itself far too soon!

Marcus Wicker
from Poetry, Vol. 199, No. 2, November, 2011