Clearing the Hands
Lord I miss my dog,
he said, his smile collapsed
by missing teeth,
old blue tattoos
of blurred wings and words
circling the sinewed arm
he reached out to my lab,
who paid him no mind,
intent on my fries.
The only way I could stop
that dog from begging
was to show him my hands
like a blackjack dealer,
palm wiped against palm,
then both palms shown,
hands all skin no secrets,
the first and second
fingers on the right one
stained yellow from smoking.
No more, Buddy.
No more, Boss.
We all laughed.
We all sipped our beer.
We all tried the honest
gesture on for size.
He used to root me
out of my chair.
I gave him his own recliner.
The February afternoon
melted the unmelted
snow edging the weeds
edging the bar’s grimy deck.
We all imagined
a big dog stretched out
in his own recliner—
like a god of happiness and appetite—
and then we laughed
some more and got pretty drunk
for it to still be daylight.
Let Down Thy Milk
Cushy Cow bonny, let down your milk,
& I will give you a gown of silk,
A gown of silk & a silver tee,
If you'll let down your milk to me.
—nursery rhyme
All the winnowing world
is rain-blind
& blurred with mist.
Let it be said:
the dead are missed.
The neighbors sold
their late father’s
herd last week,
a plan promised
since spring.
I did not have to hear
the cattle cry.
They were just gone
on my last walk.
My child & I
have loved
their black shapes
blending into dusk,
their large heads
slowly lifting
to observe us,
a shifting
of planes & deep
eyes, a light thrown
back from the shadows,
calves bedded down
in the grass,
one wild & leggy,
willing to lope
right through the fence
& graze unbounded,
while the others tried
to call it back.
Their blue vowels
wove the tree-lines,
the pasture-breast.
The lamed bull
dragged his hoof.
Now only one
mother & her calf
are left to watch
for dogs & coyotes
alone, a vigil
of senses all night.
All the flies go to her now,
her sides shivering
with their welter.
Otherwise she is smooth
& many shades & silvers
of black, a massive heat
radiating off her
flanks, her gaze
taking us in
as we approach
the fence with melon rinds
she will not take
from our hands,
preferring
to eat them
off the ground,
her big flat teeth
a patience of grinding,
a sound like the way
the earth will
one day take us in.
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Annie Woodford is the author of Bootleg (Groundhog Poetry Press, 2019), which was a runner-up for the Weatherford Award for Appalachian poetry. Her second book, Where You Come from Is Gone (2022), is the winner of Mercer University’s 2020 Adrienne Bond Prize. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Michigan Quarterly Review, Mixtape, and Gulf Coast Online Exclusives. Find more at her website, anniewoodfordpoet.com
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Stills from Sunset Boulevard, 1950, directed by Billy Wilder and starring Gloria Swanson and William Holden. Director of Photography: John F. Seitz. Production Design: Hans Dreier & John Meehan. Costume Design: Edith Head
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