the national poetry month issue || coming back for the horses
TRANSCRIPT
University of Northern Iowa
Coming Back for the HorsesAuthor(s): Stephen LarsonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 291, No. 2, The National Poetry Month Issue (Mar. -Apr., 2006), p. 7Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127546 .
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NAR
ARLENE DISTLER
Cleaning the Octopus
Flat of palm, then fine-boned fingers break the mirror surface,
beckon the creature below
to let go its hold on the rough stone.
Slowly its knobby arms open,
exposing the mouth
to receive hand's offering.
That's how it begins, the dance.
Tentacle tips curl around pale digits that sway like upside-down anemone,
coaxing the limp body off
its erstwhile ocean floor, freeing it
for a duet of caress and release.
The fingers stroke each rubbery saucer,
nimbly flip aside the filmy aggregate of weeks, months, years.
Even the veined web of skin
joining bulbous sac
with reptilian shins
is skimmed clean
causing it to flutter
like a veil in the wind, its pale underside
shimmering.
STEPHEN LARSON
Coming Back for the Horses July 3, 1863, the murder of Little Crow, Santee Sioux war chief, orphaning his son,
Wowinapa, near Hutchinson, Minnesota
Gold of early sun
everywhere dusted down
into the Big Woods,
upon the tangle of raspberries in this Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies.
Father and son knelt and reached, ate together again of the food
offered by that moment.
Had eaten many times
like this in their walk
down from Winnipeg,
coming back for the horses.
Father's square chin.
Son's dark forehead.
Palms and lips streaked red.
After the shots rang out
and father pushed his son
deep into the thicket, hoping the lucky shooting farmers were dogless,
feeling his left hip gone to warm mush, that leg buckle without its joint.
Before twisting to face them
he glimpsed his son's neck
turned toward him in the hard light, saw there the smooth sweep
of the horses he would not return.
And then some smoke. His wife's
warm breath. The golden curve
where her wrist swells into thumb, thumb reaching for his cheek, then gently his ear, across the warmth of glowing coals.
FINALISTS JAMES HEARST POETRY PRIZE
March-April 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 7
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