Tumbling to Spring
As a passenger, I fell out of the car onto the lawn,
talking. You must have known that casual conversation
exploding from mute behind glass and metal.
Follow it. It’s a jangle of cross-bred quips and
the final gurglings of a plowed fallow. Love
makes us sit in place rewired, takes women
from the world one by one. So, love, leave
us alone. You will. The conversation was Abercrombie
or, like the words you heard, tumbling us to spring.
We’ll play snakes, looking for a greener patch
knowing the dominion of days is our blank page.
Back to sky. Just sky and leaves. Glass
stratosphere. Enchantment below. We’re quiet.
Solid at our backs, leaping against the pull.
There is Nothing a Hungry Animal Won’t Do
The Yosemite
It is just wilderness and fear.
You finger the explosives.
It’s cold. The cherry bomb if bear,
then CRACK, a twig, nearer,
the matches, fuse, then BOOM,
the distant cheer and a car
barreling away in the quiet
of the last echo.
Silently, resisting the reality of being stalked,
hair and nails growing like silly string,
fragrance shining like tender
morning light in a mood of wonder for us,
those blind to scent.
When you bashed the weasel
he itched his arm
unconsciously. Still, you wake,
beating the animal in your camp
to death. Stop
at nothing to zipper the itch.
No sleep. The animals return.
Repeat the mayhem till birdsong.
Lawrence Bridges‘ poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges
