Heretofore Plenty
Desperate smallish beaks
become a frenzied bush
hungry for marrow, for fruit
and they lull the rest of us
matrixed with phones
out of range from any
towers built of
heretofore plenty.
Our having fled
leaves only silhouettes
burned into the wall
like hiroshima graffiti.
Sunlight from a high window
shows on the onion
I am cutting.
The serrated verge
and a truth
peel away through skin
by way of red clay flowing
until the spleen shines
and to the knife
gives way.
ABOUT:
L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, and others), including a recent nomination for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including his latest collection, The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021). He is a reformed lawyer, he writes and plays music, and he teaches literature. Abel resides in rural Georgia.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING:
Sleep In - Skinny Bones Remix by James Staub
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