Poetry

Caper's Poets

In Iowa — Phil Garland

In Iowa
I worked
on a farm.
The blood red
bulk of tractor
sat used up
in the sun.
Dinner always
seven sharp.
Family washing up,
Boss sat on the porch
with the gang. Even
those nights, you
could see maybe
twenty miles in a straight line.
It makes some
people uncomfortable.

Filed under: Issue 2, Phil Garland

Born Enough — Phil Garland

She had trouble with the baby
and labor pushed it to
two days. But she got it done.
Almost. Baby popped out normal,
but when the doctors got him
sprawled out on the table, sucking
the gunk from his throat, a nurse pointed
out his left foot was missing. Wasn’t
in placenta. Wasn’t even up in the mom—
they looked. Never had a left foot.
It got me thinking about
things never there, in the flesh,
and how you’d more so take notice of such
a missing than a something there, and how
far the spirit creeps from flesh.

Filed under: Issue 2, Phil Garland

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