The ground is alive: Poetry by Brent Cronin

“I Haunt Nature”

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I Haunt Nature

 

Hard white oak perfect for burning

Thick branch snaps like a thigh

Arrange the kindling just so

Flames dull in the sunlight

They won’t find me.

 

The ground is alive out here

Finger trap squiggling worm

Feel him slide down throat

A man should eat when he can

Especially when he doesn’t know

When he will eat again.

 

A proud swan in the black lake

I only have rocks

Take aim, wind up, let fly

She flaps furiously in a seizured death dance

Not very graceful for a swan

I hope dead birds float.

 

Sun fades and out come the crickets

Stupid bastards screaming through the night

Bugs pulped in cupped hand with fist

Roasted bird smell sears through forest

Juice smeared on sizzling breast meat

If they set the dogs on me

I’ll eat them too.


Brent Cronin is a recent graduate of the University of Washington’s creative writing program. He pays his bills by making wine and packaging coffee. His primary concerns are looking good, learning French, and writing. Catch him riding his bike along the Willamette River in Eugene, Oregon.

 

 


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Poems curated by FORTH poetry editors.


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