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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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SONG FOR THE LAST NIGHT OF YOUR ALLEGHENY RIVER COTTAGE

 

Seventy-eight years ago when

     Oil City’s only stonemason

glazed this ditch into a basement

          Papa Howie paid the man

twenty bucks and a fist of long-cut chaw;

              the man stumbled

   drunk on Kentucky Tavern,

          he whistled bad,

             called it Jazz,

man,

and said the house

  he built you

    will have brass fanfare 

and a stacked valley to dream to 

            So tonight

 we dance our tongues out

     at the matte black bilge

           of river sky

We rip six rounds of .308 into the mountain’s coat

       of twinkling myrtle fir

 and the ancient summer fog tip-toes and blushes

       fire red as it slow-dances with the smoke

from the funeral pyre

    of your home.

                                                       -Mike Santora

 


File:Headwater Stream (1).jpg

Headwater stream, Allegheny River