If She Lives in the Hills

Frank Stanford

My children died with feathers
Under their tongues
Said the woman fishing in the ponds
Facing towards the moon

A man passes by with a saw
Another breaks his bootlace
I am told how to get there
By the oozing blaze in the pine

Before I get the drift of things
My gloves wear out
I hear birds and whispers
Like water gnawing a hull

I build a fire
In the bottom of my boat
A good memory moves me through the current
My own blood and sort of wound

Ginny Stanford