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.