Wednesday Jul 18

TerryDanielNathanphoto-byCurtisKrueger Daniel Nathan Terry, a former landscaper and horticulturist, is the author of Capturing the Dead (NFSPS 2008), which won The Stevens Prize, and a chapbook, Days of Dark Miracles (Seven Kitchens Press 2011). His second full-length book, Waxwings, is forthcoming from Lethe Press in July of 2012. His poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in many journals and anthologies, including New South, Poet Lore, Chautauqua, and Collective Brightness. He teaches English at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and serves on the advisory board of One Pause Poetry. His website is found here.
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Feral

 
Three golden dogs sprawled
in the dawn cold, honeyed
 
bellies full of secrets as they lie
behind the illusion
 
of a low picket of ruby glass,
the sun behind it, trick of the light
 
keeping reality at bay.
Then the truth of chiaroscuro
 
revealing upturned ribs
in the bloodied stubble
 
of corn half-rising from the furrows
beside the white, clapboard church.
 
Even in sleep, this feral pack
guards the bones of the doe
 
they ravaged. Let go
of what you believed
 
you saw. Now, your eyes are full
of beauty and loss. What more
 
could you pray to see?
 
 

Azalea with Crows

 
What to make of one crow,
black and chattering to the white hovering
 
dogwood flowers, as his mate flaps down
to earth, amid azaleas, to tug and tear
 
the meat from the severed wing
that once lifted one of their own. The azaleas
 
bloom too early this year. Warm winter,
so much sun so soon, and the buds
 
can't hold their tongues
a moment longer; mouths of red,
 
pink, and white gape in the heat,
their colors made of wind and rain,
 
tell tales of the dead they've dredged up
from the dirt. Listen: one scarlet flower
 
releases the last caw from a crow's
moth-white skull cradled in a web
 
of feeder roots just below the mulch.
The living perch above it all in a tree
 
of white crosses. The female cleans her beak
on a branch. Azalea translates into dry earth; ablaze.

Though, at home it is called siangish shu
or shrub that is longing for home.
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Photo Credit: Curtis Krueger