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Tryst
Three Candles
The Paumanok Review
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T.E. Ballard
Hunt
A tourist in my own land,
countrymen offer no maps.
Longitude, latitude are measured by hand,
distance of breath.
Truth is everywhere,
madness of red, an opening—
in everything I lose myself.
Remember the fox,
how she hides from the hunter,
runs from the hounds, swallows her sharp teeth.
I tell you, if she knew her own madness,
heels of the hounds would be bloody,
and men would cry in disbelief.
Collection
Fingernails strung
like jewels in small boxes,
curls of hair hidden under pillows.
He calls out names: June, April, May.
They are months, years
of women unformed. Newspapers
tell of death more than life
and I long for sons. A desire
to iron their skins, press frame
to glass. My daughters are moths,
untouched, their wings opening,
an illusion of flight.
