Art Nahill




Fieldstones

 

Glacial

buried beneath

epochs of decay

 

they

mark the margins

of this field

 

exhumed

fitted

one atop another

 

prominence

to hollow

 

held by heft

instead of mortar.

 

Mother

often I wished for you

a tenderness

 

that could break

you open

 

like the geodes

we’d sometimes unearth

 

exposing

all the jagged

crystals.



Ophidiophobia

 

Every fear

has its proper

 

name

in the heart’s

 

compendium;

this morning 

 

I surprised

one

 

sunning beside

the fieldstone wall

 

a thick

stippled

 

question mark

I blindly answered

 

with

the garden spade—

 

every darkness

with

 

its perfect

reason.






Art Nahill is an American physician/writer currently living and working in New Zealand. He has published on both sides of the Pacific, including Poetry, Poetry NZ, Harvard Review, Rattle, and upcoming in Tar River Poetry and Salamander.









                                    

 

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