PASSIONS OF A PLAIN WOMAN
      Cheryl E. Garner
      (South Carolina Writers’ Workshop)

At three, he was my boy by the runoff creek.
Knee to cheek, toe-digging mud deep,
dipping fish bowls full, bare feet in shreds
aside the plow-sharp turn of good dirt,
the near, round trees.

Mid-youth, stories, fake new men,
blue, dark, blonde, flimsy cons, dealers,
painters, sorry dreams of slow
dancing, thin air. None, close,
knew, right, me.

Men, then of real build, chin, cheated,
smacked, dragged, bruised, blacked
my eye, sat while I called cops, ran. I
pulled my cool stuff to curb, broke
pots, my savings, my tries, to chips.

Now I summon gestures, silky dark candlelit
conjunction. It’s like they dream me, slight,
or fine, tall, full, flash red, slash sweet
and move through me, through me,
fine kiss, through me.

LAST NIGHT AT ALGIERS POINT
      Bret Smith
      (Writer’s Circle in the Town)

There is that singular moment
only whispered to one’s self--
when evening has carved
a notch in this small corner
where one secretly breathes.

A flash of light on grass
grown up to the hips;
gnarled cedar, swimming
with fire ants: Something
acidic gathers in the back
of the throat.

Hidden forms only the night
and one other creature
might know begin to bleed
that black putrid sauce. The
smell is familiar: Someone’s

Father had the same aroma
when his eyes finally settled
on the ceiling. Now it’s time

to crawl through the grass
and wait for the sun. The
trackers will see the steam
from the body long before
the dogs begin to howl.

TECUMSEH (aka “Shooting Star” or “Panther That Crouches In Wait”)
      Colin Ward
      (Lit with Kick)

You, Canadian? The greatest
American? You fought to be neither,
but nor were you panther
that crouches in wait. You were egret,
your feet in the mud as you stood
above weeds. Both

your fathers would leave you
to war. Meeting you,
Isaac Brock would say: “Here is a man!”
Sure as apple trees bud, the pleas
of a peacemaker can’t be imparted
while even your traplines have
got to be guarded. Time

was gravity
as shooting stars descended. Time
was charity
and at the Thames
it ended.

The cities were the bellows of the wind
that blew at Prophetstown,
across the rivers,
over you. Gray wolves surround
the egret. Foxes slink
away, their coats the colour of your blood.

You’d say: “Sing your death song and then die
like a hero returning home.” Yours was the song
of that egret, your life
like a burning poem.

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