Issue 16
Road
Wynn Yarbrough
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Wild Doves
We drifted up after
we spilled in the middle
of the river. He always
returned. In a quiet, nocturnal
light, I begin to understand
his many hearts.
We wade through runnels;
scan the families of clouds,
for someone we know.
When we find ourselves, we only
discover islands though everywhere
is an island eventually.
So much water,
so much to remember. Every night:
letters, camouflage, hunting for nothing.
I could hide here and try to disappear,
but my family has never been safe:
on any island.
My father searched
in the morning, he'd drive into
the blue halo of the Appalachians
at first light. Up the peaks,
grunting, past my dead mother,
turning his eyes from her face.
Paddling through the trees,
he packed enough shells
to clip the wings and break
the hearts of the wild doves waiting
for him. And though he was an excellent
shot, after he was done hunting
he returned --
with birds, soaking wet, still
empty-handed.
~Wynn Yarbrough
Wynn Yarbrough has published poems, essays, and reviews in the Potomac
Review, Branches Quarterly (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), and in the
Midwest Quarterly. He is currently an assistant editor at Black Zinnias and
at The Pedestal Magazine. Email.
© 2004 by Wynn Yarbrough. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2004 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.