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by Julia Alter
Child of coyote howl & sediment
spilling down a ravine
Nobody’s friend
friend of nothing
Nothing
but crackled wind turning a cheek
ruddy & bloodshot
A boy
growing up
with bulls & bucks
& dark flowers
A boy who learned early
how meat is made
Once you know blood
like that you carry it
for life
Forget-me-not
eyes rare another human ever sees you
wide open
Squinted up on account of the sun
slanting off
another sorrow
A mountain rider
a heart that gets cracked in half
by a blade
of grass An American
a mustang on a switchback
A stack of horseshoes in a barn
A communion of dust
Of grief Of rust
A river with its mouth
silted up a river
with no mouth to speak of
Julia C. Alter holds an MFA in Poetry from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in journals including The Raleigh Review, Sixth Finch, Crab Creek Review, Foundry, CALYX, Gigantic Sequins, The Boiler, etc. She lives in Vermont with her son. www.alterpoetry.com.