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Black snake’s a thick
cursive on the road,
sliding yardward.
Dad’s smoking in his chair,
says grab the shovel.
I do as I’m told,
chop its neck
against the gravel
as it flashes white
and bites the air.
Days before,
a grass snake like
a thin vine tendrilled
the shovel handle
on the porch,
green and slow.
The cat ignored it,
I let it go.
From Ark (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2016). Copyright © 2016 by Ed Madden. Used with the permission of the poet.
His priestly gestures, consecrating the broken eggs,
hands moving over the stove, slabs of meat
skittering in grease, drop biscuits big as a cat’s
head, threaded with cheese.
Him, making the fountain, making lantana, acanthus,
making bloom and ripple, song, making the birds.
for Ray
He wanted the God of the flannelgraph, God of the box of crayons, God of grape kool-aid and stale cookies, God of the paper tabernacle, God of the quiz bowl, God of the gold star, God of Aunt Maxine and Uncle Doug.
Rutherford Elementary
When Mark Nicholson spilled his milk on me—a slosh
across my lap—the teacher let me tip the rest
on him, then slipped me in some spare jeans in her closet,
and that was that. From then on, teacher’s pet.