Blood Moon
By the time it arrives
we know what it’s been through,
it kept the shedding in the dark
so we could be cocooned in light,
heads raised high with dead corn,
wishing the stars were rain.
Semaphore
All evening I watched
the birds teasing
the wrapping
on new feeders, empty,
waiting for rail hooks
any day now,
and the lone bee
searches for
the old mat
it suckled for water,
draped across a chair,
waiting for the sun
any day now,
as I work to forget
the way every shadow
writes your name
in dark places,
hope a broken fortune
cookie, empty,
like our home,
every day now.
The News
What can be said
of this record
breaking cold,
this out of season
experience, this
word-less loss
we have brought
the pumpkins indoors,
double checked
faucet covers,
tucked curtains
tight so even
the sun cannot
see the heart
leaf philodendron
as it begins to fade.
we know any water
will freeze, we know
your grave slumps
west, we will fill it,
sure as the sun,
sure as the night.
Sam Calhoun is the author of six chapbooks, the most recent First Things (Eulogy Press) and co-author of a collaborative collection, The Hemlock Poems (Present Tense Media). His work can be found in numerous journals and anthologies, including Cosmic Daffodils, Eratos, Westward Quarterly, Boats Against the Current, and Cold Moon Journal. His work has been displayed as broadsides in museums and art galleries as part of Wild Alabama's “Conversation Through Art” project, and featured on WLRH's radio broadcast 'The Sundial Writer’s Corner'. He lives with his wife in Elkmont, AL. Follow him on Instagram or X @weatherman_sam,
Bluesky @weathermansam, or his website,
https://pol01.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?
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