Poetry Month Post: Summer by Joellen Craft


Now their blinking bodies
so used to space
and that language
huddle in a swarm,
stricken, like cars plucked
from roads and alleys,
set to field far
from the lines and lights they know;
a field where, one winter, four boys
crunched home through cut stalks,
the bigger three quicker,
the small one fumbling, holding
one arm to the wind—shouting?
pointing? I thought I could
save their bundling toward the highway,
could keep it movement.
I kept the lightning bugs
three days, watched the light
that didn’t spread.
The boys
each a word I had
yet to say. Had ahead.
Those headlights
become paths
circling each other.
They flash bright
over and over. They
must be brothers. Watch how they wait
for the youngest, how they tend toward pack
then break. Whatever the swarm said,
I quieted. They
walk. The field
is burned, ash. I quiet everything.

Joellen Craft lives in Durham, North Carolina, and teaches at Vance-Granville Community College. Her poems and reviews appear in storySouth, Fugue, Grist, The Nashville Review, The Pedestal, Juked, and others.

2 Comments On This Post:

April 18, 2014
7:47 pm
joellen says...

thanks for posting this!

June 1, 2014
12:09 am
Lauren says...

Such a beautiful poem!

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