DAVID HORNIBROOK

Nine Short Poems 

1

Mornings after rain, the pools on the sidewalk
shimmer. Some days are perfect for walking, other

days, I know the knives are close behind.

 

2

Deer rip the flame licked sunflowers from their stalks
and eat them whole.             Once, I watched a pale tomato worm

burrow into the plump red fruit.

 

3

When the water is cloudy, the swimmers
think twice.                Sometimes, when I’m not watching

the plecostomus comes out of hiding.

 

4

How did I fail to realize the heads on Easter Island were simple bodies
buried to the neck?               At the Gentleman’s Green

no one turns the sprinklers off when it rains.

 

5

At noon – I have perfected the art of nervous laughter, climbing
out of someone else’s           swimming pool,

dripping and searching for a towel.

 

6

I watch the blue heron glide over the pond, I watch the night heron
shift on its branch.

I watch the cars go by on the road.

 

7

Nights when summer reaches its most terrible heat
the beads of sweat on the air conditioner start                to evaporate, the machine

groans and threatens to evict me.

 

8

In my dream, all the bodies in the world made one
body.               A fierce, five-headed body

splashed with paint and fire.

 

9

Van Morrison sings Tupelo Honey in 1971 and I’m hearing it
decades later             over wall mounted speakers in a coffee shop.

It’s common now, to see hawks drifting over the road.


David Hornibrook is a Pushcart Prize recipient and MFA candidate in the Helen Zell Writer’s Program at the University of Michigan.

 

 

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