John Rhoades

Why I No Longer Date

as a kid I gathered firewood,

                                   Yanking branches and sticks from the fallen bodies in the forest.


Now once a body spoke to me.

she splayed large across the ground,

                                  Groping the sky with nettled fingers, she held a bird in her palm


Her voice was a rattle. It was soggy. Is that strange?

               A voice full of leaves crunched and trunks axed.


To me, her words are gone.

              I have no idea what she muttered

                                yes. muttered. She did not sing


But kestrels could sing, or yell, and they still, sing, or yell.

                                                            What worries you more?


The chortle in her rattle worried me.

So ponderous an amusement

So sick an affliction


as a man I do not gather firewood

                                             my body is warmed by less.

Written By

Out reading.... Be back when the whales stop singing.

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