Categories
Poetry

Jeff Whitney

from THE TREE WITH LIGHTS IN IT

The best way to fall apart
is to do so
slowly.

Like a bison
breathing
in snow.

A name fingered
on a window
going cold.

from THE TREE WITH LIGHTS IN IT

Lord bless the woman
wrapped in a black Glad
bag and walking among
us, talking about the horrifying
necropants of Iceland,
asking if I can spare some
moons, hollering
for no reason
other than hollering
is another way
to be in this world.
The lyrebird is another story.
When he opened his mouth
the sound of a chainsaw
came out, then a camera,
then a car alarm. The Lyre
who never had his own song.
Who learned the secret to flight
but kept it inside, immaculate
bones incapable of singing.

____________________________

Jeff Whitney is the author of three chapbooks, one of which is forthcoming from Thrush Press, as well as a collaboration forthcoming from Phantom Limb. Recent poems can be found in such places as birdfeast, Devil’s Lake, Salt Hill, Sugar House Review, and Verse Daily. He teaches English in Portland.  www.jeff-whitney.com