Among Neighbors

Living close among neighbors,
I fence my dogs
and keep my hunter-cat
inside.

The only beasts that run at night
unleashed
or fly through the screen
above my bed

are dreams and thoughts
and silent words
before I lock them safe
on paper.

The neighbors never see or
hear them. Poems
are the most dangerous
beasts of all.

Seven Years Old, Autistic

You say “my hair’s on fire.”
You have a fever. It sparks your face
with that same flame

that finds the bright wrong words
for everything, that consumes
the safe ideas.

Uncontrollable
temper, your mother says.
You’ll burn the house down some day,

with your pet white rat and all.
Again you ask what happened
to the old dog. Again

we say, she died. “What does died
mean?” you won’t stop asking.
It means, I say,

gone to sleep, to rest,
to dream. It means release
from the flaming tongue.

Snakes

You can sit for a long time
on a summer deck
not noticing the chain

meant to anchor things
(chairs, table,
the very planks beneath you)

against theft
or savage weather. But
those things never occur

on a summer deck
with friends sipping tea
and reading poems. And yet

one friend
didn’t come today.
You’re sending flowers

like they throw into the waves,
petals on spume.
In the corner of your

eye, the chain lies
a little rusty
not quite coiling.

Directions

A turn off asphalt, then a gravel grade
flanked by unlogged pine.
A few folks live out this far;
they’ve traded the electric hum
of appliances
for a scold of jays, unchimed wind
and silence.

Keep going to the tire
propped against an oak. No need
to lock your car; it’s a different
kind of wild out here.

Head east. Take notice of your shadow
how you become your own sundial
on a dusty road. Observe
your footprints, memorize the tread.
If you look back, you won’t see
where you came from.

A trail-fork like a compass rose:
choose. If you reach the glory-hole
overgrown with green, follow
a trail of shotgun shells like crumbs
some hunter left in hopes
of finding his way back home.

A dropoff, then ridges climbing
up the skyline. What have you
brought to this view?

Taylor Graham Coal City Review editor Brian Daldorph calls this poet "a meticulous wordsmith, writing often of her experiences as a rescue dog handler. Every word of each poem is carefully considered, and yet there is fluency and grace to her poems that sometimes seem like the mysterious language of bird tracks in the snow. Taylor helps us to remember our links with the natural world." Graham has published four collections, including Casualties ( Coal City Review) and Looking for Lost ( Hot Pepper Press), as well as poems in myriad publications. She is also on the editorial board of The Acorn, a regional literary journal focusing on the western Sierra. ("Ten Poets to Watch", Writer's Digest April 2000)

Email: Taylor Graham

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