Brunswick Stew

He went hunting with his father in the fall.
The days warmed with clear, fine threads of sun
that wove blankets of heat
 into the landscape and slowly unraveled
 in the soil at night.

In early morning they carried their guns
sleek and oiled bodies
on their sleep heavy shoulders
until the leather of their boots became soft
from rubbing heels.

The first day they always fished
hungry mouths that eagerly attached
to their hooks.
Holding firm the muscular form
 to their wet palms.

Sputnik Kid

While the metal
spun slowly
as though it moved
through thick air
I was only
then learning
the meaning
of orbits.

We were told
we would be
the light of
the nation.
As if knowing
the right numbers
would produce
the measurements
of time and space
we needed
to get ahead.

Please tell me
if we have
gotten there yet.
Have I led
you through
enough wilderness
for you to know
my light is
but one
of many?

Lost Details

He told us that the thick scar on his thigh

was from shrapnel

a piece that tore through the meat of his body

from one of the few times he saw battle.

Stationed in Normandy

my grandfather spent the war 

in the company of French wine and cheese.

With a scar

that ran jagged,

pinched skin

pink and clumsy looking.

We learned later 

that it was from polio. 

Where bone had been inserted.

The incision pulled 

and folded over itself.  

WRITERS' WORKSHOP

From this point on (or until further notice) the writing that follows this post will be the work written during WRIT 401. . .