Two Poems by Bob Brussack

Daughter of the Deep Places

A hardwood doesn’t settle in its spot
Out of any preference for that spot.
She grew where she fell.
She never left the deep places
That prefer their own company.
Never left the coal-train diesel lullabies
Or evening songs of the owl and fox.
Never left the cool, clear branch
That wore its way through naked stone
To where it met its sisters and the sea.
Dressed in gingham there
And wore her hair in reverence
For what was due the reverence.
Never let her hands release
The rough embrace
Of what’s required
For salvation or honest work.
Never thought she wouldn’t hear
The urgent whistle at the mine
That wasn’t meant for someone else.

Shed and Rake

A shed sits beyond the fence, over in the field where they fed the calves. It’s half down now, paint taken by the sun and wind and rain and whatever else wanted it, the boards worn and eaten. A rake leans against it, long retired, its handle made the old way, of wood, its iron teeth rusted and three missing. They’ll sign the papers today. The closing, they call it. All of the principals will be there. The ones who matter now. And then the hard hats and dozers will come. And the shed will pass from all the worlds but one, and the feel of the rake will linger there, stout in the old rough hands of reverie.

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(Photo: Carol Von Canon/ flickr.com/ CC BY-ND 2.0)

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Bob Brussack

Bob Brussack writes poetry and short fiction. He’s been a photographer since his parents gave him a Kodak Brownie for his birthday when he was nine. He was born in Manhattan, lived much of his life in Athens, Georgia, and resides now in Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland. His poetry has appeared in the Roanoke Review, the Naugatuck River Review, the San Pedro River Review, the Black Coffee Review, and elsewhere. His recent short fiction piece, “Toad Took Lunch,” can be found at witcraft.org.