by zamora | November 7, 2023
I love the heft of a pick,iron weight I slam to earth,feel the thud, see the rift in clay still cold but ready to turn, amend, furrow, and fillwith blue salvia, yellow marigolds,colors for the Bucha starushka in a green coat, pictured in the Times. ...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
Years ago, the city gave into a rage for safety—fears of snakes,muggers, rabid raccoons—enforced a crewcut conformity: men whacking, sawing, mowing, all the way downto the water, as if the creek needed a close shave, no public bush allowed. Now, we find...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
(Un)Finished The fertilizer was a formula from Purdue, the redtruck from Dearborn, the road unborn was a bearpath running across Iron Mountains, Virginia. That day, the local newspaper recorded the StateFair winners and the state of affairs in the no-longer White...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
I want to clean something down to the bones.Make a closed space open. Bring in air.Let go of avarice. As if all that I have gatherednow hidden from me or taken. Squirrel nests.Stack of plastic buckets, holes chewed through.Fluff filled flowerpots. Even the hammock...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
(From a series of pandemic sonnets) God! I’m glad I can smell the spring, or smellat all. I’ve stuffed the house with cheap bouquets all winter, to test myself. Can I catchthe scent, will I make it? In the city park, over exhaust and exhaustion, I can tellthere’s a...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
The heft of a palm-sized pebbleis all it takes to get in touchwith what we left behind or lost,fingering the texture, testing the age-old fact of gravity,wondering how far we couldtoss it in a time when thatwould matter, the target a tree twenty yards away.If you...
by zamora | November 7, 2023
1 the eve of another fall and i am punching holesin the sky with my sneakered feet,a swingset-chain-link-hand-hold on childhood. which is the longest run-on sentence ever,until it isn’t.and then for the lucky, comes the next part, maybe. 2 a swallow tail is worth...
by zamora | November 6, 2023
before dawn’s shell-shinystart I notice winter damageon the neighbor’s pinethe top blown into its own branchesand from within this highdark tangle heara voice he singsa simple chordtwo tonesor one so rich and pure it makes a layerlike the sound of...
by zamora | November 6, 2023
a quarto for G.—— in spare time we...
by zamora | November 6, 2023
And be-low (for Clay County, KY) A tire, three wheels off a child’s tricycle, ripped jeans and hand-me- down gray coats, dyed a permanent brown. Stone- washed hoodies, stones from Ulysses Creek, misplaced and longing for home. Mud. Two yards of grandma’s yarn, empty...
