by Brendan Sherry
There is no straight twin in the water, all ripple where they bend
We would say to them, The separation of mainland is ice
The same type of open elsewhere is, The window of
Time is a meeting we walk home from, in the cold
Clinic where the strip-mall stops, two brothers in a car
Don’t slam the door when you get out
Wind is the present of wound, one tree doesn’t present a forest
Though it might reach this conjugation in an aspen grove
And of course he slams the door, a halo ties him to his head
Tracks populate in the land between his footsteps
I inherited these feet from someone, he says
It feels like they’ve been walking through the snow
Brendan Sherry’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, The American Journal of Poetry, and New South, and has been featured at Coldfront. He lives and works in Greeneville, TN.
A-Minor 