Return to Salt Springs
Winter barely left,
Right at the end of March,
The scent of spring rain had yet to overtake,
A faint burn of frost in the nose.
Offroad right before the trail to the spring,
A muddy plain with an endless grey horizon,
We crawl on top of my car like toddlers,
To avoid dirtying our shoes,
We look out like wolves,
And howl forever,
Into that deep hibernation of the land.
She strode over the windshield,
A strange beast in the night,
Barely caught in the headlights.
We laid out spent packs of cigarettes,
And bags of potato chips,
From the slow trip down,
In the car’s side pocket,
An ossuary for the bones of a saint.
The saint left the church married now,
Hardly seen by the sun or man,
Heard only in memory's bark,
I howl too,
Answering the call of dogs.
Letter from the Body Farm
Barbed wire blows in the wind,
Moonlit coolness emanates from the fence,
A stag of white light walks right through,
And lays between rotted furrows,
Ready for death,
Last breath and last dream walked hand in hand for miles,
Between bloated pig carcasses and corpses of old men.
In a briar patch that hid blackberries,
A child rolled fruits between his fingers,
His jeans caught on burdock,
He picked each bulb out,
One by one looking down,
The child could not catch the stag,
An escape that did not fail.
Yellow paint on a woman's forehead,
Flies wage a heroic battle above her brow,
Casting shadows you can see through,
Onto wrinkles,
Light through small wings,
Stained glass in miniature.
Men in hazmat frocks give each death their due,
No clocks on the farm to keep time,
Just clipboard urns,
Here plucked weeds become soil after weeks of waste,
Bones the dreaded banners of previous times,
Buried by no one.
Doggirl flicked the lightswitch in the funeral parlor,
And whacked her tail on the coffins,
The ghosts laughed,
And remembered happier days of catfish on the line,
Bluejays begged her to stop,
Restless ghosts aren't easy to avoid.
The flowers asleep,
Took no notice of a child with blackberry stained hands,
Who walked right past,
The peeled shellfish legs of young women.
Stars above,
The only eyes for a little while,
Over rotted furrows,
And flies that trickle,
stained glass sweat.
Pallet Bone Blues
Eyebrows heavy my head folded down,
Night settled over low flames,
That reflected in the pond a few yards away,
Pallet shadows danced like bones in a macabre march.
Two people sat on the paint stripped bench,
Where the yellow plank ribs were lifeless,
John’s head on Ann’s shoulder,
Eyes closing,
Her wide open blue eyes,
Reflected a low flame,
Empty cans stood like the pines,
At our burning backs.
“John” she said,
And poked at him,
He slept through,
Like the dog in the bathtub inside,
Heavy as a skeleton,
Who refused to rise,
Even when you slammed the door,
Despite the whole world out there,
On the march just for him.
But it’s hard for me to remember it cleanly,
Considering I was half asleep myself.
Adrian Frey is a 24 year old poet from Upstate New York. Their work has appeared in APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL and Poem Pilled. Their Instagram is @aj_frey and their Twitter is @slowcorecowboy.
High Horse 