The Animals Aren't Really Animals Nor Do They Like Me
The Owls is the name of a band. The band doesn’t care about logging or pellets. The myth is that the owl can see you coming. From any direction the owl’s eyes are. Wolves see the owl and the owl’s intent. Wolves at the door or the garden gate. Wolves don’t care about money we just think they are greedy. Wolves have created a great deal of art that is lost to us now. Wolves invented weaving. True fact. The panda holds in a black band around his middle so much metaphoric weight. Best insects: bees. Best big cat: panther. No. Jaguar. Charming is the animal paying for his newspaper. He counts the coins so carefully. It’s the sort of thing one loves at first and hates after fifty years of marriage. The animals can wear suits when needed. The important thing is that interacting with the animals still leaves me lonely. The forest we play-act in shudders outwards and stretches wide like a dog yawning, like a snake unhinging its jaws to eat the dog, and what the dog ate, and what the dog means to the snake.
There Will Be No Protection From Living
There is a shadow waking up every morning beside you, talking with you every afternoon and evening, about your day, your success and sadness. experiment or dalliance, All of which is to say, I want you gone if I can’t be with you.
(new Stanza) In love, I speak differently than intended. I mistake with unexpected results. The point is need. The point is love me or the sour present, future spurn.
Remember, you were looking at certain things: how much room there is with new people in social settings how much connection the best possible position to feel quite distant when I kiss you I’m able to convince you what if time and more some small taste of shit—my God-- what happened is still happening.
Fairness Doesn't Enter In
The birds follow the birds. They move in a cloud of shared ambition. The trees sway. There must be wind. This must be landscape, that boat house and the blue lake flapping behind it. These cars and the drivers gliding along, also, landscape, also my body walking between the street’s bluster, the postcard’s script.
It’s not rational to tint the world with shook out sadness. Enough sheer layers of color, and you’ve got real depth. There are ducks now, in the thawed lake. Small green tips force the ground apart, shove shoulder and then a lemon yellow head. Color is its own belief. Everything has reappeared, and what else to call it—everything has come back, but differently, but different.
-- Rebecca Hazelton attended The University of Notre Dame for her MFA, and completed her PhD at Florida State University. She has received fellowships from the University of WisconsinMadison Creative Writing Institute and Vermont Studio Center. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Agni, The Gettysburg Review, The Southern Review, and others.