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Cul-de-sac Pastoral

The sill plays a cruel joke—thrones me. Frames me

lording over lawn mower stripes—myself

in a shallow trench. In grass blades. Myself

persisting, despite a dickhead sun—me

in chlorophyll. Early, I find myself

swaying—me! in the black chokeberry, me!

in the rabbit’s throat. Me, the rabbit. Me  

dancing out pellets. Out-dancing myself—

my father’s pellet gun, the hawk. The joke

is a bright belly full of dark hopping

along my father’s garden & the joke

small, between wrapped talons, is the hawking

too, is the axe sun, swift, rising, this joy.

This joy, it swallows itself far too soon!

Source: Poetry (November 2011).

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MORE FROM THIS ISSUE

This poem originally appeared in the November 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

• Wild Turkeys
  by Robert VanderMolen
• Three Books
  by Michael Robbins
• from Supplice
  by T. Zachary Cotler

• November 2011 Table of Contents
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More about this poem

Biography

Marcus Wicker was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His first book Maybe the Saddest Thing (2012) was selected by D.A. Powell for the National Poetry Series. The recipient of a 2011 Ruth Lilly Fellowship, he has also held fellowships from Cave Canem, the Fine Arts Work Center, and Indiana University where he received his MFA. Marcus is assistant professor of English at University of Southern Indiana.

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Poems by Marcus Wicker

• Animal Farm
• The Way We Were Made

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Living, The Body, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals

POET’S REGION U.S., Midwestern

Poetic Terms Couplet, Pastoral

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Related

Audio

• Poem of the Day: Animal Farm
• Poem of the Day: Bay Window Lauds
• Poem of the Day: The Way We Were Made

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