Hobble Creek Review
| Kathleen Kirk |
Midwestern Creation Myth
After a dry spell, Sugar Creek ran dark
with treacle, a sweetness refined from our bones.
Most of us were afraid of ourselves, our gardens
shot full with touch-me-not. We could not catch
flies in the bleachers with vinegar, and the corn
tasted of kerosene. But once the cracked earth
released us, we were the new balm, better than oil,
better than myrrh. We were molasses and butter
and the earth's flaky crust melted in our mouths.
Brown-Headed Cowbird
Briefly, the bubbling call of brown-headed cowbird.
Bird at the edge of herd or farm.
But here in the neighborhood, three shiny males
fly from evergreen shrub to sweetgum branch,
scouting available nests. What risk! Cowbirds leave
their speckled eggs for other birds to raise
or toss from the nest as alien, intruder. Japonica
blossoms erupt along the close-trimmed
branches in the neighbor’s yard, pale as the female
cardinal perched on the steel-gray fence.
The cowbird as a species survives even human opinion,
pathetic fallacy. Why not call them pioneers?
Long gone the dropped-in-a-well pebble of song.
Why not call them poets?
Some birds recognize the odd egg, building a new nest
over the old, deserted changeling given its own
rotten layer of the universe.
After a dry spell, Sugar Creek ran dark
with treacle, a sweetness refined from our bones.
Most of us were afraid of ourselves, our gardens
shot full with touch-me-not. We could not catch
flies in the bleachers with vinegar, and the corn
tasted of kerosene. But once the cracked earth
released us, we were the new balm, better than oil,
better than myrrh. We were molasses and butter
and the earth's flaky crust melted in our mouths.
Brown-Headed Cowbird
Briefly, the bubbling call of brown-headed cowbird.
Bird at the edge of herd or farm.
But here in the neighborhood, three shiny males
fly from evergreen shrub to sweetgum branch,
scouting available nests. What risk! Cowbirds leave
their speckled eggs for other birds to raise
or toss from the nest as alien, intruder. Japonica
blossoms erupt along the close-trimmed
branches in the neighbor’s yard, pale as the female
cardinal perched on the steel-gray fence.
The cowbird as a species survives even human opinion,
pathetic fallacy. Why not call them pioneers?
Long gone the dropped-in-a-well pebble of song.
Why not call them poets?
Some birds recognize the odd egg, building a new nest
over the old, deserted changeling given its own
rotten layer of the universe.
Kathleen Kirk has poems in a number of print and online journals,
including The Fourth River, Greensboro Review, and Poems & Plays. A
past co-editor of RHINO, she is the current poetry editor for Escape Into
Life. She used to teach, she used to work in a bookstore, she used to
write for an encyclopedia, she used to be an actor in Chicago.
Sometimes she feels a little used. She has four poetry chapbooks, blogs
eight days a week, and listens to birdsong.
including The Fourth River, Greensboro Review, and Poems & Plays. A
past co-editor of RHINO, she is the current poetry editor for Escape Into
Life. She used to teach, she used to work in a bookstore, she used to
write for an encyclopedia, she used to be an actor in Chicago.
Sometimes she feels a little used. She has four poetry chapbooks, blogs
eight days a week, and listens to birdsong.
| Home / About / Masthead / Submissions / Contact / Current Issue / News / Archives |
