Here’s a poem from 2007. Thanks to generous editors at Willow Springs, who were kind enough to give it a home back in 2010:
IN A GOAT PASTURE JUST OUTSIDE OF CROSS CUT, TEXAS
The time we found those three dead kids,
tucked away in a cluster of oaks.
How, as I held them in my arms—
so white so small so soft—
the wind raking their fur,
their eyelids never opened.
The finality of death
surprises me still,
the way I never notice prickly pear
until I’m in it,
how, even tonight, I find needles
sticking through my shoe.
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