Heretofore Plenty 

Desperate smallish beaks 

become a frenzied bush 

hungry for marrow, for fruit 

and they lull the rest of us 

matrixed with phones 

out of range from any 

towers built of  

heretofore plenty. 

Our having fled 

leaves only silhouettes  

burned into the wall 

like hiroshima graffiti.

Sunlight from a high window 

shows on the onion 

I am cutting.  

The serrated verge 

and a truth 

peel away through skin 

by way of red clay flowing  

until the spleen shines 

and to the knife 

gives way. 

ABOUT:

L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, and others), including a recent nomination for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including his latest collection, The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021). He is a reformed lawyer, he writes and plays music, and he teaches literature. Abel resides in rural Georgia.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING:

Sleep In - Skinny Bones Remix by James Staub