The
sparrows are figuring their
complaints again, beech nut
by beech
nut, by rattle and
commotion.
Another
plank falls off the boathouse. A little
more wind.
By the
gutted riverbed, a ferry horse beats
the earth into a pattern like day
and
night, day and night. The moon
with its fossilized crown
from a
catacomb of pines. The hogs
bump blindly
against
the axe handle.
There is
a kiln in the basement brimming
with rat skulls.
There
are enough notches in the
dinner table to sharpen teeth.
On the
front porch, a girl is drawing plates
of breast bone, belly fat,
pickled
spleen for the feast.
Three
crows are arguing in the yard over
loose strands of hair, beaks
furious
at work, three sisters knotting
the fingers of an old birch.
Through
the fog, a suckling cry-- spoons ringing in their empty cups.
60 The Paris-American
Matthew Zingg's poetry has appeared in The Madison Review, The Awl, Muzzle, Blackbird and Opium Magazine, among others. His criticisms can be read in The Rumpus and forthcoming in The American Reader. Zingg received his MFA from Adelphi University and lives in Brooklyn. Photo was taken by Jillian Brall.
