by Daniel Evans Pritchard



WE DROVE NORTH on Route 2,
where the elbow’s cheek of sumac
seemed to blush with phlox;

where privet and spurge
singed the blasted rocks,
which were tagged with

a single pair of names repeating
Love for miles. It’s hard to see
the boneyard of aspen and birch

this vivid green and yellow blur
will soon become; the tanning pines
a season too old, or too young,

are sure to split in the first
real storm. But the trees don’t know
this is their season to burn.

Hours and hours of light are left
when we reach the border with
Vermont and stop for gas. Already

thinking about the next stop,
and the next, she’s tapping her thick
heel at the pump and watching

the numbers wheel up and up.
Already, winter is on our minds,
as much a bearing as a season.




Home a lamb of wooden bones

a lambkin at night

dark with glass eyes

shuttered and the hidden    

throat of the

crawlspace hissing.

She sweats in the heat

her pink chemise

almost luminescent


the blink of the television

as he his

mind full of tripwires

circles end

to windowed end

of their house because of the rain


it is August already

and mornings now

the cottonwood

sags with talents of dew

Warm white smoke

stains the light

around her face

and settles at her waist

She sighs, flicks away

a stem of ash

He haunts the room down the hall

where the half-built crib

juts like a pier

its half-made complexity


He like a swimmer

extends his hand

expecting to feel

a strange slick body

in the black

It’s nearly impossible

to figure their distance

standing at

opposite shores

How much that pier

grew between them

They become circles around each other

too soon to want this much

an invisible structure

too soon the little heart in its

matchbox cage

had stopped

Daniel Evans Pritchard

DANIEL EVANS PRITCHARD is a poet, essayist, and translator as well as the founding editor of The Critical Flame, an online journal of criticism, creative nonfiction, and interviews. His writing can be found inHarvard Review  online, Public Pool,  Drunken Boat, Prodigal, The Quarterly Conversation, Rain Taxi, The Buenos Aires Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Greater Boston and tweets about literature and politics at @pritchard33.


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