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Red Paint

/amorak huey

Dear Longlost

dear summer dear spring dear wet sky of mine my body lets me down I have not written I am not writing your name the only word I remember again again and still I spend another season dreaming of your mouth when the snow stretches thin fades into the rivers and lakes of our imaginary future everyone emerges daffodil and crocus greet our faces this is not a ritual nor a sign this is what it means to live in a body hope is a question do you will you do you still please

Prayer With Wolves Approaching

Flames bite and spit. The forest will not burn. Such haunting is not to be dismissed easily, this murking place is not our friend. We followed a trail of owl bones, bloody tufts of fur until the light ran out. Thought ourselves home. A glade unbound by the physics of memory. Ancient oaks tie black knots above, roots bulge like rocks under a carpet of fallen leaves, footing disloyal. We make promises we do not understand. The earthquakes come as a surprise. Storms we weather, floods we outlast, others we do not. We kneel and ask for more. The howls near. Fire feats at the ragged edges of the clearing, destroying nothing. We learn patience. Learn to settle for what we have and call it strength.

Amorak Huey’s fourth book of poems is Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress Publications, 2021). Huey is co-author with W. Todd Kaneko of the textbook Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury, 2018) and the chapbook Slash/Slash (Diode, 2021), Huey teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan.


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