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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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SWEETLY BEAUTY SURPRISES MY DREAMS

 

Eyes open, as the sun has taught her,

Venus swims underwater toward the sand.

Her kind and sweetly breasts are cool.


The red of the coral illumines her.


Her brown tracks are lovely as her feet. 

The wind bows to her.


The crescentic dune awaits her.


Like the nest around its eggs,


her smile warms the brown

sand martins

May the safety of my arms surround her.

 

         —Craig McVay



CHICKEN AND TREE

 

          From photo by Edourd Boubat, 1951

 

The hen under the tree knows

more than you think:


That the spade in the dirt by the fence

will move anywhere she looks.

It is afraid of her.


That the trees we squint at sneak a foot forward

every night and grow as tall as instructed

by the hen’s bare tree in the center.

How they admire the tree!


That if she steps to her left

and her skinny legs and claws follow her skinny beak,

and if the mink doesn’t get her,

she’ll step onto a mountain,

a stone-gray fort she’s never seen before.

She’ll have to decide where to go next.

 

                                         —Craig McVay

 

  

LOOKING FOR GRACE'S NEW BIRTHDAY SPOON

IN THE DUMPSTER BACK OF SCHOOL

 

Diving into the Stygian muck,

searching for the elusive cursive G

on the handle of the spoon,

I searched the darkness


Like a man aching for a daughter,

or she for a daddy.


In the river of deep sadness lay the nameless ghost

of the child we never spoke of.


Swim, whispered the ghost, swim.


So I swam, eyes open to the stinking black,

crying under water.


All I could do was grab at grasses of love

that whirled like necrotic skin sloughing  from imprecise arms;

trying to trace the curving white line of what I would do for her

as long as my breath held.

                                             

Grace and I huddled to the car. 

As quietly as a river gives up its fog,

she pulled  my face down and kissed me on the cheek.

 

                                           —Craig McVay