Two Poems

A Beagle Roundelay

On the side of a hill in Henry County,      where a woodpile is stackedagainst the guarantees of winter,      two rabbit dogs play

while a graveside service takes place      at the Church of the Brethren next door.Sun floods the worn-down grass.      Children's toys, happy plastic

mud spattered, scatter the yard.      The New Year is breathingeverywhere, every breath lifting      scrub pine and oak stick,

rattling the underpinnings of trailers      in foreground and background.The dogs roll and roll.      And when they bite, they bite as brothers

do, with mouths made to cradle game.      They swipe each other with soft paws.A hymn rises around them,      though, being dogs, they don't need song.

Instead they stop and scent a wildness      weaving the timbered-over hillsideclimbing, like cordwood,      toward the changing sky.

And then they are gone,      clouds casting shadows over drivewaysand gravestones, the flat, tarred roofs      of convenience stores, the red dirt

gullies covered in scrub pines — all      the sacred undulations of this scarred land.They're out to track a trembling.      You can almost hear them call.

All of This is Magic Against Death

Frank Stanford

All in a summer's daymangy kittenswith cross-eyed facesthe mama cat has an overbitebrothers and sistersbreeding each otherthe black one sleepswith the gray one's tailcurled around his facethe kids are in the rec roomplaying Lynyrd Skynyrdwith reggae riffsMama's hands shotfrom choppingboxes of onionskneading breadtearing open ten thousandpackages of chicken legsbut here she isopening cans of peachescans of cornshe's gonna feed everyonethere's a rabbit out backin a chicken-wire cageonce it got awaythe little kids chased itsome skint their knees they practice kissingin the trampolinesweat all salt no spunk yetthe orchard next doorwas closed by dementiawe used to eat the cherriesafter the old manswept down the netsthat kept awaythe squawking jayslittle sour cherrieshung like decorationson a woman's dressdaddy played the trumpetuntil all his teeth crumbledhe said son have all your teethpulled at twenty-oneit will save you a worldof trouble.