after Matthew Henriksen
The river widening at the copse
& the peach trees in the far distance
tell us that this poem is not ours.
But the sky is, & it tells us to melt
so we do, hatching into hyacinths
beneath the lilac sun.
In the puddle that we’ve become,
the peach trees flowering, the petals
white sheets drying in the sun. Like us,
they will evaporate, leaving nothing for memory
but an amber hue
that will wash the night like honey.
Set for a Michigan Spring
I learn all the names for spring with a blackened tongue. Open
another noun for holding: white-tailed deer
& taxidermy, all the objects of an afternoon
ready for placing. Position the egret, the teal,
the muskrat. Color in the cattails,
the dogwood, the black belly of the whistling duck. Add the snapper
beneath the willow tree, the nebulae of frog eggs that it eats. Toss in
the perch, the crapple, the brown trout & splake.
Hold me like you would the ‘S’ sound:
a stone’s throw from Saranac, Saugatuck, Superior,
watching white-tails from the porch; the water thundering against
the awning, the morning being fed out of this trickling hour, into
sky, into light.
Seth Canner attends the University of Greenwich where he is editor of Projector Magazine. He is also the founder and editor of Poached Hare , a literary journal and chapbook press committed to contemporary creative work. His most recent publications appear in The Manhattanville Review, Five:2:One, and Noble/Gas Qtrly.