Fall 2009

Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 3


Poetry    Reviews    Fiction   

Christine Hamm


Shattered Fetlock

My uncle tells me not to
touch the tiny blue eggs
nested in the oleander bush

outside his front door.
His doorbell sounds
like a fading ice-cream

truck. Robins congregate
on his lawn, singing a Beatle's
album in reverse. On the front

steps I wear heavy gloves
meant for a much larger
man, but everything is breaking,
opening its yellow eyes.


This Road Goes South

Construction in the woods
again keeps me up all night.

Someone has left a baby there,
and men are trying to find it;

pitchforks, shovels, specially
trained terriers with squeals

that sound like angels crying.
The lights themselves have

a noise, a rough engine hum.
Remember when I fell into the well

when I was four? I still have the scar
on my forehead. I think of that opening

dark every time your tail lights dim,
further and further into the trees.


© Christine Hamm



Poetry    Reviews    Fiction   

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