Friday, 18 July 2014

Poem of the Week: "Hunters" by Lindsey Bannister

Hunters

It's the dead of summer and

grandmother sends me wandering
to the old man's store where
hunters gather and
dirty fingers fiddle knee-cap and
tongues, tobacco-slick, sing bawdy wisdom. Afterwards

I mount the rusty bones of

my second-hand bike. Hunters
make for nasty oracles I think before I stop
pedaling. In this field
sunflowers stun me, they lurch like
sore backs engaged in the stubborn task of living in
row row row like an assembly line, like
a chain gang. I think
of mystery and love and hunter's tongue because

it's the dead of summer

and these are broken men.




©2013 Lindsey Bannister        

Taken from CV2, Vol. 35, No. 4  Spring 2013



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