Stashed, I suppose, against
the hum of absence
that hangs
about the cottage

or the sinking
when her face refuses
to form in his thoughts

he keeps a palm-sized pistol
black among his balled socks.

Each morning in the dark
he can suffer
its clarity
cold and almost unbearable
like plunging a hand
beneath the thawed surface
of the lake.

Beneath his winters
he buries his longing,
plants an orderly Spring,
dried embryos
laid beneath a mound
of hand-worked earth
that was his, free of stones
and pliant with elm rot.

When they expose their soft throats
he will accept,
as if pleasantly surprised,
their invitation,

upend the hibernating boat,
give the family of snakes
space to slither
through curled grass, yellow
from the press of winter,
to cool their panic in the lake.


(This poem originally appeared in the South-West Review, Volume 88, No. 1)

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.