Kristen Orser: Little Trill Goes to Sheep

Little Trill Goes to Sheep

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Do, as if only this ocean. Its willing
nest pins.       When it rolls back,
nudged by light, there’s such an evening.

Everything about
is what we talk about
over fish. That pause

might have been
a day we slept.

Warmed hands and up to necks

in knotted memories of snow;
Buffalo too often. Under
thumb. The back of my knee,

when thinking so often
of light.

           ∗    ∗    ∗

Rest mountain.
Arranged grave.                   What’s happening here?
Try to wake up

the line. Keep
with falcons
to follow. The form

under the table,
with a humidifier,

doesn’t breathe as we do.

I mean California now,
or a symptom of bells;
can you imagine

mothering a bird
after all the clouds?

           ∗    ∗    ∗

If you’re willing,
the sun positions at ocean end;

and, too fast, a dim shimmer.

Two possibilities:
It’s over.
Wouldn’t it be something?

It’s not all imagined, he’s named
after toes are accounted for.

            All voices pull apart, fall into the center
            where there is offering, a small flute sound.

Yes, the sun comes back with a hollering.

To run away with geese.
But this is more monarch land,

and fireworks are over, July
is over. We cannot go back
to flutter. Imagined echo

where blackberries grow on street corners,
the boy goes to sleep

to wake
as son.

           ∗    ∗    ∗

Baby boy,
moon down

the pace is hurry.

The doctor remembers a tree
on fire. More
pushing before we’re alive.

Never mind the aviary,
how the hound dog yammers,

            it only counts when a pair
            of eyes stays blue for at least a year.

I can’t tell in the night.

Suppose the moon knew
and chatted it up. Our circumstances

of lessening, trying to tip toe
or resist a donut. It’s obvious
we need to unfold patio furniture,

make room for that prickly feeling;
the tenderness

is only one of the new things.
When will you commit to the sky?

           ∗    ∗    ∗

Is that why we fall asleep in sun? Waiting
whistle to call us in for dinner.
Syrup season doesn’t happen this far

west, where the form
bluebirds take
is like prickled nettle. I don’t remember

everything, but his eye shows me
myself. There are no instances
like this instance,

which copies time.

I call my mother to say he is extra
tired today. She says perfect, he is
perfect. What do I want,
what else could I want? This is

subplot. On the clothesline,
the hanging alphabet. We
argue about meaning,

the word quiet.

It’s how it’s all said. It’s how
the laugh follows

everything, everywhere. The ghost
of eggs we let spoil. Meanwhile,
baby boy practices vowels,
gets big cheeks.


FICTION: Lisa Beebe, Karl Harshbarger, Lauren Johnson, J. Robert Lennon

NONFICTION: Matthew Gavin Frank, Deborah Thompson

POETRY: Melissa Barrett, Thea Brown, Lauren Camp, Sampurna Chattarji, MRB Chelko, Patrick Culliton, John Gallaher, Ricky Garni, Meghan Lee, Kristen Orser, slp, Meghan Privitello, Megan Pugh, Amelia Salisbury, Matt Shears, Raena Shirali, Dolsy Smith, Avni Vyas, Elizabeth Whittlesey, Nicholas Wong